Delayed Heritage
by chappysmom
Summary: What's a man to do when his estranged family hires his own flatmate to find him? Part of my Heritage AU series, a 9-chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Note: I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC's, Stephen Moffat/Mark Gatiss's, and Arthur Conan Doyle's. I just like to play here. Not beta'd or Brit-picked. This is the latest story in my "Heritage" series—where I take one fact, change it, and then watch as it alters every aspect of the story. In all of them, John is the grandson of an earl but is still an invalided-home army-doctor who decides to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes.

What if John's father had disowned him (like in the first story), but this time he was in the line of succession … which makes John was his official heir?

(And before you ask, no, I don't know the legalities of being able to exclude a disfavoured son from the succession for an Earldom if you don't want him to inherit. For the sake of this story, we're just going to go with the "you can't argue with bloodlines" argument.)

###

* * *

They were sitting in a café when the news broke.

"_Earl of Undershaw Dead._."

John stared up at the photo as the news reader described the Earl's unexpected death early that morning in a car accident.

His father was dead, he thought, staring at the face on the screen, so much older than the last time he had seen him. Twenty years, it had been. John had been barely 18 when his father had thrown him out of the house, insisting that his urge to join the army was a blemish on the Brandon name.

John hadn't let that stop him, though. He'd joined anyway, and gone on to study to become a doctor as well, dropping the Brandon name as he went. (If his father felt strongly enough to disown him, it was the least he could do, wasn't it? Not to "drag" the name down with him?) It had taken some work to get new ID in his mother's name without leaving any traces, but he had managed. He had lived the last twenty years as _he_ wanted to, trying to think as little of the family left behind as possible.

He supposed it was helpful, in its way, that his mother had died before this happened. Leaving her would have been much more difficult.

Still, it was a shock to realize that his father was no longer breathing. His grandfather had passed on several years ago, too, which meant …

Oh, God.

He could feel his eyes widen as he realized—had his father not disowned him, if he hadn't kicked him out…

If things been different, John would now be the new Earl of Undershaw.

It wasn't something he had given thought to in years. He had been too busy trying to make a living, make a [new] name for himself. He had thought about his grandfather and his family from time to time—of course he had—but he hadn't spent time thinking about how his grandfather happened to be an Earl. It had been so long since John had seen the man, which he still regretted. He had adored his grandfather and had always thought he would have disapproved of the way John's father had handled things. But then, if his father had been more like his grandfather, John's life would have been very different. He probably wouldn't have been wrapped in a bomb vest just last week, for example, or be living with London's most frustrating genius.

A genius who was giving John an odd look at the moment. John hastily schooled his expression. "Sorry. Distracted. You don't think of Earls being in car crashes, eh?"

"Don't care," said Sherlock. "I'm more interested in figuring out how Mr Applethwaite managed to get himself strangled by his bread machine." He stood up, tossing money on the table. "Coming?"

"Oh, right," John said, shovelling a few forkfuls of pasta into his mouth as he rose. He should just start ordering all his meals in take-away containers to start with, maybe then he'd be able to finish them from time to time. He couldn't resist a glance back at the television, though, but the news reader had moved on to some story about holiday shopping and he turned away. It wasn't like he would be getting a piece of his father's estate—or wanted it. He'd managed without it all these years, he wasn't going after it now. It would just make him look like a vulture circling his father's bones, and frankly, that was more attention than he wanted to give the man.

He wondered if they would be looking for him, now that his father was gone—though really, why start now? It had been twenty years with no signs of anyone hunting for him and, anyway, he'd been John Watson for twenty years now. He didn't need John Brandon anymore.

#

He kept an eye on the news for the next few days, but after the first flurry of headlines, nothing came of it. In fact, it became almost eerily quiet. To his relief, there were no articles, no posted photos of a missing heir to raise questions he didn't want to answer.

He admitted to a certain amount of curiosity. His father aside, he had been fond of his family, years ago. Except for a handful of illicit meetings with Harry, he hadn't seen any of them in twenty years. He couldn't help wondering about them, much like he wondered about old school mates from time to time. He tried to tell himself this was healthy. Just idle curiosity. It wasn't like he had any obligations toward them, or anything. Not like he by rights was the next Earl after his father and therefore titular head of the family. No, nothing to see here, just move on.

What John didn't expect was that the decision about getting involved was going to be taken out of his hands.

#

"John, we have a case."

John paused in the middle of removing his jacket. Why couldn't the man let him get in the door before springing this on him? Unless … "I should leave my coat on, then?"

"What? No, why would you? We've got a _case_."

John just sighed. This was what happened when Sherlock got too bored. The least possible stimulation made him lose all sense of proportion. "Right. So, what's the case?"

"Not that exciting, really, just a missing persons case," Sherlock said, "But it's not a recent one, either, though I haven't the details yet. It's still better than nothing, even if it _was_ a referral from _Mycroft_."

John was starting to have a bad feeling about this. "Not a recent missing person? Or not a recent case?"

Sherlock just gave him a look. "Person, John, obviously. Had I been on the case, it wouldn't have gone so long … though, to be fair, I was only about fifteen at the time the man went missing, so I doubt they would have come to me at all."

That sounded … suspiciously familiar, thought John. "What, a twenty year old case? And they're just coming to you now?"

"Apparently the father just died and the family is looking for the heir. The interesting thing is that nobody seems to have looked for the man when he disappeared. Apparently since he had just turned 18 and was no longer considered a child, they weren't as concerned, or something."

"Sherlock," John interrupted, "What case are you talking about?"

"The Earl of Undershaw, surely you've seen the news?"

And there it was. "The Earl of Undershaw," John said faintly. "Yes, I've seen it. And—they want you to look into it?"

Sherlock nodded. "They're on their way now, in fact, or at least the cousin who contacted me. He works with Mycroft, apparently, and I came _recommended_. I only hope the case is interesting enough to get the taste out of my mouth."

"Coming here?" John repeated, unable to help himself. This was a disaster. He couldn't be here when … who was it that was coming? He shrugged his jacket back on. "We … we don't have anything in, Sherlock. I'm going to … run down to the shops to get some milk for tea, shall I? Need anything else? No? Excellent. Back soon."

He was heading down the stairs before Sherlock could even answer. He wasn't even thinking, he just needed to get out of there, as quickly as possible. The thought of bumping into his estranged family on the stairs was haunting him, and all he knew was he needed to be out of the building before any of his cousins came knocking for Sherlock. The entire way down the stairs, he was terrified that he would open it to find David on the other side, hand lifted to knock. Or Sara. Or, God, Harry.

He was almost panicked as he pulled the street door open, and breathed a quick sigh of relief as he hurried out, just as a black car slid up to the kerb. Too close, he chanted to himself. That was too close, far too close, much too close. It was all he could do not to take off running down the street.

He had spent so much time keeping his distance from his family over the years, had spent so much time mentally separating himself from the Brandons … how was he supposed to deal with this now? So suddenly?

But was it really sudden, he asked himself? It's not like he hadn't been watching the news, hadn't known his father had died. It hadn't been beyond the realm of possibility that someone might come looking for him.

He had never expected this to be a case of Sherlock's, though. Easiest case ever, he thought. If his cousin or aunt or whoever it was in there had brought a photo of 18-year old John, well … that would be it. Case done. Person found. Sherlock would probably be upset that it hadn't taken more effort than lifting his head and looking across the room and asking the simple question, "John? Is your surname Brandon, by any chance, rather than Watson?" John could just see it. He would nod in agreement and Sherlock would drop his head back on the couch and say, "I thought as much. Dull. Bored, John!"

Right. This was not going to go well.

#

Sherlock nodded to the man at the door, still wondering why John had felt it so important that they have milk for a consultation. It wasn't like they usually served beverages, after all—especially since so many potential clients were indescribably dull. Maybe he had spooked at the title? Some people acted oddly around the peerage, though he wouldn't have expected John to get nervous for any of them unless their surname was Windsor. The army instilled respect for higher ranks, after all, so how was this any different?

He gestured the man in, trying not to think about the fact that he was only here because of Mycroft. "Have a seat, Mr…?"

"Brandon. David Brandon," the visitor said, reaching forward for a handshake. "You come highly recommended, Mr Holmes."

"I can imagine," Sherlock told him, as he waved him toward a chair. "You said something about a missing cousin?"

"Yes, my cousin John," David said. "Son of my Uncle Jonathan, the Earl of Undershaw, who recently passed … you may have seen the news coverage?"

"My flatmate was interested," Sherlock said. "So, the man you're looking for, your cousin, he would be the current Earl?"

"Presumably. The thing is, without knowing exactly what happened to him, it's hard to say. You see, Mr Holmes, none of us actually know what happened to him—if Uncle Jonathan disowned him for a good reason that would prevent him from inheriting, if he ran away, if he's alive, or dead. We just don't know."

"Nobody looked for him?" Sherlock asked, feeling a surge of curiosity. "At all? How old was he?"

"Just 18. My aunt—his mother—died of cancer right around his eighteenth birthday, and it was only a few months later that he was suddenly gone. My uncle never said a word about where he'd gone and forbade all of us from looking for him, saying it was between him and John, that John knew where home was. He refused to hear another word on the subject. Not even my Grandfather—the Earl at the time—could get a word out of him. We all just assumed they'd had another one of their fights … though when John didn't show for Grandfather's Christmas party that year, we wondered."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, finger tips steepled under his chin. "And you're searching for him now because his father died and you need to know if he's alive for the sake of the title … and his unclaimed inheritance."

There was a spark in the other man's eyes as he responded, "It's not as callous as that, Mr Holmes. I am well off in my own right, as is my sister, but Uncle Jonathan was the older brother and if John is still … alive … he is the one who should inherit the title."

"Yet you hesitate. I can hear the doubt in your voice—you think he's unworthy?"

"I… I suppose I won't know what to think until I see him again." He paused. "Understand, Mr Holmes, I always liked my cousin John. He was smart and caring and responsible. He looked after his sister and kept an eye on all of us when we'd get together. My grandfather adored him and even as children, you could see that he would grow up to be exemplary, a credit to the family. But then … this sudden mystery. He just disappears!"

David was on the edge of his chair, as if fighting the urge to get up and pace. "At first we chalked it up to grief for his mother, and the sudden changes—about to head off to Uni with his home life in disarray, worrying about his sister, about his father … because he would have. Responsibility and concern were practically the hallmarks of his character." His voice trailed off for a moment as he stared into the fire. "My Uncle on the other hand … I hesitate to speak ill of the dead, but … let's just say he was never the man his father was. Or that John was becoming. I could well believe he and John quarrelled, that John might have stormed off one day, ridding the dust from his feet as he sailed off to Uni to become a doctor, or whatever he was thinking at the time. So, those first few months? We weren't… Well, we expected to see him at Christmas … but he didn't come."

"And still nobody searched for him?"

"Uncle Jonathan refused to allow it," David said quietly. "Oh, I believe Grandfather asked around, put out some queries, but without any cooperation from John's immediate family … nothing came of it. Not even Harry knew. Or if she did, she never said anything."

Sherlock blinked. "Harry?"

"Harriet," David said with a tiny smile. "John's sister. She's refused to answer to Harriet since she was five…"

He started to explain, but Sherlock cut him off, resisting the urge to leap to his feet. "Do you have a photo of your cousin?"

"What? Oh, yes." David opened the briefcase he'd brought with him. "It was hard to find, actually. Uncle Jonathan rid the house of all photos of John at some point, but luckily, my mother enjoyed taking photos, and I found a few pictures from when I was a child. John would have been about 16 or 17 here…"

Sherlock all but snatched the photos from his hand in his eagerness to see them. It had to be a coincidence, didn't it? A brother John with a sister don't-call-me Harriet, Harry? A John with a tendency even as a child for being responsible and caring. A John who had spoken of being a doctor…

…A John who looked so very young as he grinned up at Sherlock from the snapshot in his hand. Twenty years younger or not, he would know those features anywhere. Sunny blond hair with a matching sunny smile as he stood in the photo, glancing over his shoulder with affection for the woman—his aunt—holding the camera. That wasn't John Brandon at all, Sherlock thought, but John Watson—an impossibly young, eager John, one who had not yet seen war or death or had his career ripped from him by an Afghani bullet.

Sherlock's mind raced. But how was this possible? John couldn't possibly the be the son of an earl, could he? An Earl himself? And yet, he remembered the interest John had shown, the look on his face when the news reader had announced that the Earl had died.

He also remembered how John had practically fled from the flat when he learned Sherlock had taken this case and was expecting his client at any time.

Mouth dry, he glanced over to David. "You said he wanted to be a doctor?"

"Yes, it's one of the things he fought Uncle Jonathan about. My uncle didn't believe the peerage should do anything as constructive as work."

"Not unusual," murmured Sherlock. "But John felt differently?"

"Very much so. Like I said, he just wanted to help people. He'd even joked about joining the army at some point, but I think that was mostly to rile up Uncle Jonathan."

"Have you checked, though?" Sherlock asked. "I would think with your contacts, you'd be able to check the registry rolls."

David gave a weary nod. "Nobody named Brandon who could remotely meet John's description. Nor could I find a record of any Uni training, either. He'd been slated to attend Oxford, but … never arrived. So far as we can tell, he dropped off the face of the earth." Now he did stand. "At this point, Mr Holmes … I do realize how unfortunate it is that we left this search until after Uncle Jonathan was dead, but … he wouldn't…"

"Wouldn't allow it," Sherlock said with him. "And that didn't make anybody suspicious?"

"Of course it did," David said with a snap, "But what were we to do? The problem now is that we need to find John—or find proof of his being dead. And if he is alive, we need to verify whether he is fit to inherit the title. If he's spent the last 18 years on the street for example, or in a mental institution, he may not be equipped. The thing is, we don't _know_. And we must. Can you help us, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock just looked at him. "Did you show these pictures to my brother, Mr Brandon?"

"Yes, just before he recommended your services."

"Of course he did," Sherlock said with a snarl. "Leave this with me. I make no promises with a trail this cold, but … I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, Mr Holmes. I'm really very grateful."

Sherlock stood and shook his hand. "What do you hope to gain, if I find him, Mr Brandon? It's been twenty years, after all, he'll have changed. You obviously weren't very close if it's taken you this long to look for him—yes, yes, your uncle said not to. But answer me this—if your uncle hadn't died and left you these legal hassles, would you still want to find this cousin of yours?"

David met his gaze steadily. "I know this looks bad, Mr Holmes, and believe me, I regret deeply that I have not looked for John sooner. I meant it when I said I admired him, and the thought that he may have been suffering these last twenty years because we didn't bother to look for him … there are no words. I want to find him, for his sake—but also, I confess, for my own. If I find he's been gone, dead, these last twenty years—or worse, that he's died recently from some kind of neglect—I'll never forgive my uncle. Worse, I'll never forgive myself. The cousin I remember deserves better than that. It's not about the title, Mr Holmes, or the money. It's about finally doing the right thing, now that I can."

Sherlock nodded. "In that case, I will do my best."

#


	2. Chapter 2

John paced through the park, measuring out one, large, wide circle as he walked laps. It wasn't that he was afraid, he told himself. He wasn't avoiding his cousin—or whoever was in there with Sherlock. He wasn't … or, not permanently, anyway. He just needed some time to think. Because, if his family was finally looking for him, didn't he owe it to them to allow himself to be found? Not that there was much choice now, not now that they'd come to Sherlock.

He came to a sudden halt as the irony hit him. Of all the detectives in all the towns in all the world, they had to come to his? Except this wasn't Casablanca, it wasn't Hollywood. This was the real world, where there weren't pretty, happy endings all tied up in bows before the closing credits rolled.

Realistically, while he had spent the last twenty years as a productive member of society, he hadn't exactly been honing his skills at estate management, or whatever it was that he would have been studying as his father's acknowledged heir. He didn't imagine triage and battlefield medicine came up very often at the dinner table, or in a conference room.

Now that he had stopped walking, he realized how tired his legs were, with the left one beginning to truly complain. He looked around and spotted an empty bench not too far ahead and walked toward it, trying not to limp too obviously.

Before he got there, though, his phone chimed with a message.

—_Allow me to give you a lift. MH_

He looked up to see a familiar black car gliding to a halt in front of him. Damn it. Mycroft probably knew everything and couldn't resist poking his nose into John's private business. He would probably argue that any change in John's situation would affect Sherlock and therefore it was his business, but that would just be an excuse, and they both knew it. Mycroft was as unable to resist interfering as Sherlock could resist a mystery.

He stared at the car for a moment and then, shook his head and bowed to the inevitable. If Mycroft wanted to talk to him, he was going to, and there would be nothing John could do to avoid it. At least they weren't in the flat so he wouldn't have to deal with his sniping at Sherlock at the same time.

John was moderately surprised to find Mycroft actually in the car, though, instead of just an anonymous assistant whisking him off to some covert meeting. He slid into the seat and licked his lips, waiting for the man's opening salvo.

"You might be interested to know that I recommended my brother's services to a colleague of mine, one David Brandon," the other man said, finally. "Do you know him?"

John forced the words out past his pursed lips. "I'm sure you already know the answer to that, Mycroft, so why ask?"

"Fair enough," Mycroft said almost amiably. "In truth, it's not the question I'm most concerned with at the moment."

"Why I ran?" John asked, trying to insert as much sarcasm at the obviousness of the question as he could.

"No, indeed," Mycroft said, cutting him off. "Going by what David told me, I think your reasons are fairly clear. An abusive father—or a controlling one, at least—who would not let you out of his very narrow niche. It's an old story, one that doesn't always end as well as it did for you. Most eighteen-year old runaways come to grief." He twirled his umbrella in his hand and then said, "No, my question is why you haven't stepped forward since your father died?"

"Worrying about the state of the Peerage?" John tried to keep the bitterness from his voice. "You don't need to tell me I'm ill-equipped. After twenty years in the army…"

"Not at all," Mycroft said smoothly. "If anything, your time as a doctor and a soldier have added depth to the already strong personality of a natural leader—you'd need to be to be able to influence Sherlock to do anything, after all. No, I'm wondering why you haven't sought out your family now that your father's obstruction is gone?"

"And how is this your business, Mycroft?"

"Just interested," he said, "Since this will affect not only you, but also my brother—and my colleague as well. I know you are unafraid to tackle difficult … situations, doctor. That's been clear since the first night I met you. So what is it about this one that makes you hesitate?"

"It's not a matter of hesitating, Mycroft," John told him after a moment, "But of trying to do the right thing—and having the choice taken out of my hands. You knew, didn't you, when you sent David to Sherlock?"

"He had an old photo with him. There could be no mistake," Mycroft said, voice almost gentle. "In answer to your unspoken question, though, no. I did not know of your heritage before that."

John gave an abrupt nod, watching out the window as the car swung onto Baker Street. "Is my cousin still here? Or is it only Sherlock I'm about to face?"

"Just Sherlock," Mycroft replied, "Who I am sure is full of questions."

"I'm sure." John's voice was so dry it barely made it out of his throat.

"Since I have helped precipitate this situation, John, I wonder if I might give some advice?"

John huffed. "As if I could stop you?"

"I told you the day we met that you missed the war, and you've proven every day since that this is true. You seem to function best under extreme conditions—nothing else could explain your continued flatshare arrangement with my brother. I've seen some of your best qualities come to light when the situation requires—natural leadership and an impressive calm when chaos is erupting around you. Yet, when things are calm, you seem to suffer the oddest lack of self-confidence, and it is this which I believe has kept you from claiming your heritage in these weeks since your father died."

It was all John could do to refrain from yelling at the man—it wasn't bad enough that he was interfering in his life, but now he had the audacity to analyse him, too?

Mycroft's lips pursed as he considered his next words. "I'm sure you consider I've overstepped in arranging this meeting between your cousin and Sherlock—that you no doubt believe you've been left with no choices, but this is incorrect. Quite the contrary. The power now is entirely in your own hands. If you choose to remain silent, I believe Sherlock will respect your wishes, but if you do not … the ball, as they say, is in your court. Instead of being forced to wait upon events, you have the power to shape them to suit yourself."

John couldn't help staring. He would never have looked at it that way.

"I've known from the beginning that you were unusual, John. Should you choose to take up your title, you will bring a perspective that will be entirely your own. You've been a soldier, you are a doctor, and you help to solve crimes with my brother. You are a unique combination of both a self-made man and one who comes with the inherited power of a centuries' old Earldom. It will be fascinating to see what you choose to do." Mycroft glanced up toward 221B. "And now, I see my brother is waiting for you. Good day, John."

Still stunned, John gave him a nod and pushed the door open.

#

Sherlock was disgusted when he looked out the window to see Mycroft's car pulling up with John. Leave it to his brother to butt in—as if he hadn't done enough damage, pointing David Brandon Sherlock's way?

From behind the curtain, he watched the hesitant way John glanced back at the car before turning toward the door. His tread was heavy on the stairs as he climbed. "Your brother's a git, did you know that?" he asked as he came into the room.

"I was aware, yes," Sherlock said, observing John's slight reluctance to put weight on his bad leg, the amount of grit dried at the hem of his jeans. He watched the tiny hesitation as John finished hanging his jacket on its hook before he turned to look at him.

"Interesting client?"

Sherlock gave full marks for John's neutral tone of voice. "You might say that, yes. His case is not without interesting points, but ultimately, far too simple. The man he's searching for turns out to be … you."

John exhaled. "Yeah," was all he said as he gingerly crossed the room to sink down into his chair. He sat a moment and then said, "You've got questions?"

"Were you going to tell me?"

A poor imitation of a shrug. "Until today, there really wasn't anything to tell. I haven't been John Brandon for twenty years. I didn't know what my father might have done about the inheritance or the title, and it wasn't something I was going to go chasing. I … I gave that up, after all."

"Did you?" Sherlock asked. "Because your cousin was under the impression that you weren't given a choice."

"Really?" John looked legitimately surprised. "What did he tell you?"

"That your father blocked every attempt anyone made to find you over the years—even those of your grandfather, who clearly should have been able to overrule him. Your cousin said the family started worrying when you missed your grandfather's Christmas party, that first year." Sherlock couldn't help the upward inflection, the query. In his family, people regularly wrangled their way out of the boring obligations. It was usually only the unimaginative who showed up.

Not in John's family, apparently, judging by the reminiscent smile on his face. "My grandfather loved Christmas, and as his birthday was so close, he threw a party every year … it just kept getting bigger and bigger, but he loved every minute of it. It was pretty much a requirement to go, but nobody ever minded. It was fun, and nobody ever missed unless they were desperately ill or…"

"Or dead," Sherlock finished for him. "Hence the concern."

"Still," John said on a surge of bitterness, "They can't have been too worried. The Brandons are a canny family—_someone_ should have been able to outmanoeuvre my father to look for me. How hard could it be?"

Sherlock handed John the file David had given him, filled with records of his attempts over the years. "Maybe you're better at hiding than you thought."

He watched John paging through the file with some disbelief. "Maybe I am. I honestly didn't think dropping my surname would be so effective at throwing off pursuit." He tossed the file aside, frustrated. "Did he say why they're looking now? I'm sure my father didn't leave me a bequest of any kind."

"Not one he could take away, at least," Sherlock said, eyes intent.

"The title?" John asked. At Sherlock's nod, he grimaced. "I didn't think … I'm sure he would have done everything possible to prevent that from coming to me. He made that quite clear when I … left."

"Did you leave, John? Or were you thrown out?"

"Six of one, half-dozen of the other, really. We had a fight and in pure melodrama fashion, he gave the 'my house, my rules' ultimatum. He said I was to obey, I said I'd rather leave, and … I did."

"What was the fight about?"

"He objected to my career choices—disapproved of my wanting to be a doctor and couldn't even begin to comprehend why I'd want to join the army. To my father, apparently, wanting to serve Queen and Country was letting down the family name … don't ask me to explain it, because I still can't." He shook his head, the burst out, "I still don't understand it. How could serving my country have shamed him? The best I've been able to come up with was that it wasn't glamorous enough for him, since I didn't just want a desk job, but still!"

Sherlock almost winced at the buried hurt in John's voice. "He obviously didn't know you very well."

"No. He only ever wanted a mini-me, and the thought that I bought into the idea of family responsibility for supporting the Crown? Apparently wanting to do more than writing a cheque was too much for him." He pushed himself out of his chair and walked into the kitchen. "Anyway, I'm surprised he didn't officially disown me."

"From what your cousin said, they need to find you in order to determine whether you are dead, alive and unfit, or alive and able to take up your duties."

"Alive and unfit?" John turned to lean on the doorway. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"A junkie in the gutter, committed to a mental institution—that sort of thing," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand.

"Oh, well, sure. That would do it," John said with a hint of amusement. "And all I did was get myself shot and kicked politely out of the army."

"There's always the psychosomatic limp," Sherlock said, voice encouraging. "If we play that up, maybe they'll accept that … assuming you don't want the responsibilities of the title?"

John's eyes were suddenly large and lost. "I … I've never even thought about it. Even since hearing my father died—I never considered it would be me. I haven't even been a Brandon for two decades, how could I be the Earl of Undershaw?"

"That's not how families work, John," Sherlock told his friend. "Even I know that—do you think I'd put up with Mycroft at all if I could avoid him?"

"Good point."

#

John felt dazed. He really was the earl? David was looking for him, not because of some bequest from his father, but to make sure the title was passed on?

True, when he had heard about his father, he had wondered about the title. He knew the law, knew it was supposed to be passed to the oldest son or male relative, but … it had been like the way you dream about spending a million pounds when you win the lottery—technically possible, but not exactly in the realm of likelihood. Considering the way they'd parted, he had been sure his father would have moved heaven and earth to get John officially removed from the line of succession.

John couldn't quite see his Grandfather having gone along with that, though. Even if his father had managed to block attempts to find him, his grandfather would never have allowed John to be disinherited without a reason. But even then, his father would have disowned him the minute he claimed the title himself—if he could.

No, since John had left the house at 18, he had pretty much assumed the title would never be his. He should have remembered his cousin's sense of fair play. Naturally David would be the executor of the estate (since his father would obviously never have chosen John … or _Harry_), and John found it impossible to believe that David would have neglected to search for his long-lost cousin before finalizing anything.

John hadn't realized how long he'd been staring at nothing, thinking, before Sherlock's voice broke through his daze. "Do let me know how complicated you want it to be for me to 'find' you, John. Because, you do realize the hit my reputation would take if I couldn't find the person literally under my nose?"

John blinked at his friend. "And if I didn't want to be found?"

A small shrug. "Perhaps you could dye your hair to add some verisimilitude to my claim to have been unable to find you, then? Grow a moustache, perhaps?"

"You would do that, though? Say you couldn't find John Brandon if I asked you to?"

"Did you run because you committed some crime?"

"No," John said sharply, indignant.

"Are you a danger to yourself or others?"

"No," John said, "Or at least, not unless you make it necessary by putting yourself at risk."

"Then I don't see a problem," Sherlock said. "I understand how annoying family obligations can be. I wouldn't force you into yours against your will, not if I could help it."

"That's good to know." John could feel a smile pulling at his lips now. "Though I still can't believe they want me back."

"They'd be fools not to," Sherlock told him bluntly. "But then, they waited twenty years to come looking for you, which doesn't say much about their perspicacity."

"No, no it doesn't," John said, but even as he did, he couldn't help but wonder … it would be nice to see them again, wouldn't it?

#


	3. Chapter 3

"You're sure about this?"

"Sure enough," said John, pulling at his tunic. "Though I don't know why I let you talk me into wearing my uniform."

"Because a visual aid is the quickest way to explain why you've been out of touch all these years," Sherlock said yet again as he reached forward to ring the doorbell. "It's not like you're impersonating an officer, John. You've every right to wear it."

"I'm not in the army anymore, Sherlock."

"Through no fault of your own," his friend said, looking down at him with concern. "You would still be there if you could. And, trust me, seeing you in your uniform—it's a first impression that should reassure them right away, assuming your cousin isn't as stupid as your father was, to think this is somehow offensive. It certainly proves you've been productive."

John was just opening his mouth to reply when the door opened. As agreed, he let Sherlock take the lead. "Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson, here to see David Brandon. He'll know what it's regarding."

"Of course," said the butler, opening the door to let them in. "If you'll please wait here?"

He disappeared down the hallway and John looked around at the entry hall. "It hasn't changed much since it belonged to my uncle," he said. "I'd swear those are the same drapes at the window."

"Or your cousin likes tradition," said Sherlock. "It's one of the things you've escaped, John, this stultifying atmosphere…"

The butler returned before John could ask him what he meant, and they followed him to a sitting room with windows glowing gently in the setting sun and offered tea. John refrained from adjusting his uniform yet again. It was only a minute or so before his cousin David entered the room, in that calm rush that was his special brand of hurrying. "Mr Holmes? I hope this means you have some news…"

His voice trailed off as he caught sight of his cousin. "John? But Jensen said Dr Watson?"

John cleared his throat, forcing down the nerves. "You might have forgotten, David. John Hamish _Watson_ Brandon. I've been using my mother's maiden name for the last twenty years."

"Why did none of us think of that?" David said, voice wondering. "Good God, John … you have no idea. Why did you never contact us? Grandfather … he was so worried about you. Not finding you was one of his biggest regrets at the end. And, Mr Holmes? Your brother was right about you—I can't get over how quickly…"

Sherlock shrugged. "It wasn't particularly hard, Mr Brandon, seeing as John is my flatmate."

"Your flatmate?" David looked stunned. "So, when Mycroft told me about his brother, he knew?"

"He knew when he passed you on to Sherlock," John told him, "But he didn't know who my family was until he saw the photo you dug up from God knows where. I don't think he was able to resist the fun of just sending you on to Sherlock rather than telling you outright. Don't get me started on his idea of fun. As it is, we almost met the day you came to the flat. I had just, er, stepped out for milk and found out about your visit when I came back."

"So, you've been living with Mr Holmes all this time?" David shook his head. "But, the army uniform… you were in the army?"

"RAMC, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," John confirmed. "I've only been back in London for about six months."

"You've left the army, then?" David said, ushering them to the sitting area and pouring the tea the butler had brought in.

"Yes, and it was while looking for a flat I could afford on my pension that an old friend from Barts introduced me to Sherlock," John said, hoping to skim over the details of being shot and forced out of the army.

"But…" David looked like he was trying to decide which of a million questions he wanted to ask first. "What happened, John?"

"When I left the army?" John asked, "Or when I left home twenty years ago? The short answer is that Father and I had a fight—he didn't approve of either medicine or the army—and he kicked me out. So, naturally, I was obstinate enough to go ahead and do both of them. Studied medicine, joined the army, ended up in Afghanistan. Then, as I said, I was introduced to Sherlock by an old friend when I came back to London. These days, I work as a locum doctor, but also help Sherlock with his cases. I even blog about it."

"Oh, God, the blog," David said, voice wondering. "I've read the blog. That's you? Of course it is. I feel like I should have known. My God, John, I don't know what to say."

"I didn't think the blog was _that_ bad," John said, teasing.

"No, I … it's just … all these years, and then you're coming home from the army alone … and," David's attention suddenly sharpened. "Doesn't your blog say you were shot?"

He'd forgotten about that—but who would expect anyone to read back to the pathetic early attempts at blog posts? "Well, yeah," he said, "But as you see, I'm fine now."

"Mostly," Sherlock inserted, his eyes fixed on the other man's face.

"What do you mean?" asked David, concern flashing across his face.

"He _means_," John said, "That yes, I was shot, and there's enough damage to my shoulder that I can't be a surgeon anymore."

"Which means he can't command the kind of salary he could have expected before," Sherlock put in, making John want to wallop him.

"Which is a moot point," he said testily, "Because with the hours I keep chasing after Sherlock, it's not like I could hold a steady job in medicine, anyway. Just ignore him. Tell me what's going on with the family."

For the next while, the conversation covered the current state of John's cousins and various extended family. As he listened, though, he was trying to figure out what Sherlock had been getting at. He'd made John sound wounded, desperate for money, but that was no longer true, was it? Not since he'd moved in with Sherlock and found his days full of new and exciting things. They might not be rolling in money, but there was more than enough for John's needs. So why was Sherlock making it sound like he was hurting?

John didn't want to sound like he was here because he needed to be here, or because he'd been trapped into coming. Mycroft had said it—John was in control of the way this played out. He wasn't here with his hand out. He didn't need anything, and he could walk away at any time. He presumed Sherlock's pointed remarks were his way of trying to help, but … it wasn't necessary. Walking away twenty years ago had been devastating. Turning away now, though? That would be easy.

"Finally, of course, you do know that your father died several weeks ago?" David ended his recitation delicately.

"Yes," John told him. "I saw it on the news."

"But you didn't contact me—or Harry?"

"I didn't know what my father might have done as regards his estate, but I assumed I had been cut from his will. I didn't hear anything about John Brandon being looked for, so…" He gave a shrug.

"Don't you care what happens to Undershaw?"

"Of course I do," John said, stung. "But I wasn't going to push myself in like a poor relation, David. I'm managing just fine, as I have been for the last twenty years. I'm not here because I'm looking for money or vindication. I'm here because for the first time in two decades you actually came looking for me."

A small silence. "I looked for you before, John. Mr Holmes has the file."

"I saw the file, David," John told him. "And I appreciate the difficulties my father's … attitude … caused. I'm saying I'm not here like a vulture looking for handouts now my father is dead. I may not be a surgeon anymore, but I'm doing fine."

"Certainly better than when you first arrived," Sherlock put in, a gleam in his eye.

"Sherlock," John snapped. "That was different. I was still recovering and finding my footing."

"With a cane," muttered Sherlock, but he subsided when John glared at him.

"The point," John continued, voice firm to override any other interruptions, "Is that I never said I didn't care about Undershaw, or our family. But I've managed on my own for two decades, David, so why are you looking for me now?"

David's voice was abrupt as he responded, "You may well have forgotten your family, John, but we have not forgotten you—nor have we mistaken where you stand as regards the family tree."

"The title," John said.

"Yes."

John just shook his head in disbelief. "You can't possibly think I'd be a good choice for that? Now?"

David tilted his head to the side. "It's not a matter of _choice_, John, but anyway, I don't see why not. I told Mr Holmes that we needed to know if you were legitimately ineligible for, certain medical conditions, shall we say? But you're here in front of me, you look well, you've spent the last twenty years serving your country and aiding the wounded, and now you help solve crimes. You sound appallingly competent to me."

"Appalling is the word," John said, feeling utterly flabbergasted. "I don't think trauma medicine lends itself to going over bank statements and estate reports, David. I have no experience…"

"You were a captain in the army, weren't you? A surgeon?" David said, "That means you had inordinate amounts of paperwork, I'm sure, as well as budgets and requisitioning and apportioning of supplies. I can't think of better training, myself—not to mention the life-saving skills."

"But, I…"

"Not to mention that you accomplished this without any outside aid at all, no-one pulling strings for you?" David leaned forward. "John, that's extraordinary."

"All this flattery is going to go to my head, David. I didn't… I was … I just had to do something, didn't I? I wasn't the first kid to join the army, after all. Believe me, I had to stitch up plenty of them."

Silence muffled the room for a moment, as Sherlock looked at John with a fresh interest that suggested an interrogation later on. Then David cleared his throat. "Yes, well. So, you haven't been at touch at all? Even with Harry? Did she know?"

John tilted his head. "Yeah. We talked every year or so," he admitted, "Just to make sure she was all right."

"That _she_ was all right?" David sounded indignant.

"Of course," John said calmly. "She was the one left with Father, and all things considered … well … I worried."

"Her drinking, you mean," David said sadly. "I didn't know if you knew."

"Of course I knew. She was already drinking before I left and I didn't expect it to get better. I didn't mind leaving, you know, not really, but I minded leaving her. We never got along, but she's still my sister, and I knew what Father could be like. If she'd still been living at home, I would have tried to stay."

"But she knew? So she lied to me when I asked? Every time any of us asked?"

"She didn't have a choice," John said. "Like I said, I knew what Father was like—if he told her not to say anything, she wouldn't have dared. It's not her fault."

The three of them were silent again (John couldn't believe his luck, that Sherlock was keeping his tongue behind his teeth for a change), but finally John stood up, unable to bear the dense, electric currents roiling through the thickened air. "Right," he said as he pulled a card from his pocket. "There's my number and my email, David. We'll figure out what we need to do, how to do it, how to tell the family—all of it. It was good seeing you again. Coming, Sherlock?"

Because suddenly he couldn't stand that room anymore, the feeling of the walls closing in. He had never considered leaving home at 18 to be anything other than getting away from his Father, and as a member of Her Majesty's army, he knew plenty about how to suffer through tense, restrictive, unpleasant circumstances. If he didn't get out of this house, though, with all its weight of memories and tradition and echoes of his father arguing with his uncle, he was going to lose it.

He barely paused as he marched through the entry hall, snagging his coat from the startled butler as he went by. (And it was a march—definite, firm, full of intent—he wasn't running, he wasn't fleeing, he was making a tactical retreat to regroup, that was all.) He knew he'd left the men behind stunned at his abrupt behaviour—and wasn't that a laugh? Him being the one being rude and abrupt for a change? He wondered if Sherlock would try to smooth over his exit the way John had soothed dozens of other people capsized in Sherlock's natural shock wave.

As if on cue, Sherlock strode through the door, pulling on his gloves. "That was a refreshing change," he said as they started down the street. "You storming off and leaving me to be polite." He bit out the last word as if it tasted bad.

"Makes a change of pace," John said. "Sorry, though."

Sherlock just waved a hand. "Oh, don't be. I know how it is when there's too much stupid in the room—or too much history, in this case."

John shot him a sideways glance. "True," he said after a moment. "Stupidity wasn't really the problem."

"You were doing well enough before he brought up your sister."

"Par for the course for Harry," John said. "Even as a topic of conversation, she's … difficult."

"And you're disappointed in her." Sherlock said. "She didn't tell you of any of this."

"It's not surprising, really," John said. "She's not in the habit of passing on family news. We … we tried that at the beginning, but it just made things harder."

"To the point where she didn't even inform you your father had died?"

John shrugged. "I did tell you we didn't get on."

"Yet you've been protecting her all these years."

"That's what brothers do, Sherlock," John told him, "As much as you don't like to admit it. I may not like her very much, but she's still my sister. I can't help but try to look out for her."

Sherlock sniffed. "Pity she doesn't extend the favour to you."

"That's Harry," John said. "I like to think her heart's in the right place, but have learned never to depend on her—something Clara learned the hard way."

"Clara? Who's … oh yes. The wife." Sherlock reached up, hailing a cab with his usual efficiency. They clambered in and were on their way down the street when he continued. "You were fine until your sister came up in conversation."

John couldn't deny it. "She's … always been jealous that I would inherit," he finally said, "Even though I was younger, when she was ineligible. It's been a sore spot our entire lives. Now … if I come back and step into this, after all these years … she's not going to take it well."

She wouldn't, either, he thought. There would be tantrums and sulking and probably quite a lot of drinking, all of which, of course, would be John's fault for making her look bad … as if she didn't do that to herself. She had never been good at taking responsibility for her actions, never been able to accept that many of the things going wrong in her life were problems she had caused. In an ideal world, she would have been cherished and coddled , except, this wasn't an ideal world. Here, her mother had died, she had alienated her brother, disgusted her father by her chosen lifestyle, and driven away the one person who most wanted to be with her. Harry was bitter and angry and all too often an unpleasant person … and now, if John miraculously resurrected himself and stepped into the supposedly glamorous life of privilege and power that she had always craved?

It would be a nightmare.

But really, what other choice did he have?

#


	4. Chapter 4

"Harry? It's John."

"_John? Why are you … what's going on?_"

"We need to talk."

#

John fidgeted with the menu while he waited for his sister to arrive. She hadn't wanted to come, but he insisted—something he'd done so seldom in the last two decades, he figured she couldn't refuse. He hoped. This was going to be a sticky conversation, and talking to Harry at the best of time was like fighting with Velcro. But now? There was no way she wouldn't know he needed to talk about their father … and his title.

Basically, this conversation was going to be hell.

He had apologized to David on the phone last night, begging stress and emotions as his excuse for leaving so abruptly. "It's just a lot to take in," he'd said, and his cousin has been quick to agree. He had been so smoothly understanding, in fact, John had no idea whether he'd made a good impression or not. The man worked with Mycroft, after all, and knew how to be a diplomat. He might have been utterly appalled when Sherlock strolled in with an invalided, ex-RAMC captain, but he'd hidden it well.

Sherlock had seemed to think the meeting went well, though, so that was something. Now it was just a matter of trying to figure out how to tell the rest of the family—and not embarrass himself. Seeing Harry was the first step for that.

He looked up as the waiter ushered his sister to the table, waiting while John stood to give her a quick kiss on the cheek before handing her a menu and gliding away. John took a moment to study her—flawlessly turned out, as he expected from his fashion plate of a sister, but paler than usual, with red rims around her eyes. Drinking, he wondered? Or grief?

He didn't say anything, though, but turned his attention to the menu. Maybe he'd get to eat a full meal for a change, he thought.

Neither of them spoke until the waiter had come back to take their orders. He was barely out of earshot when Harry said, "Well, you wanted to see me, John."

So much for civility, he thought, as he went directly to the point. "Were you going to tell me, Harry? About our father dying?"

Her eyebrows rose in what he thought was honest surprise. "Didn't you know? It was all over the news."

"It was," he acknowledged with a brisk nod, "But that's still not the ideal way to learn of your father's death—and it certainly didn't include information about his funeral arrangement, where to send the flowers, anything like that."

"Please," she said with a sniff, "As if you didn't know where to send the flowers. He was an Earl, for God's sake, and it's not like you don't know where Undershaw is, even after all this time."

John took a deep breath, fighting against the tide of temper he could feel rising in his chest. "I do. And it's true that I might have questioned my attendance at the funeral, all things considered, but still … how could you not tell me, Harry?"

She made a face. "I should have, I suppose, but it was such a shock, John. It took me by surprise and I didn't know what to do. I couldn't think…"

"You mean you were drunk," he said bluntly.

She leaned forward and said with a hiss, "Don't say that! You don't know what it was like! You weren't there!"

"No. I was sitting in a café when I heard the announcement on the news," he said, voice biting, but then he shook his head. "But, it doesn't matter. We hadn't seen each other in twenty years, after all, and going to his funeral would have been hypocritical—not to mention drawing too much attention from his, er, fond memory. I know you'll miss him."

He took a quick sip of water to wash down the verbal bile. Harry had always been their father's favourite and had been (for obvious reasons) been much closer to him these last twenty years than John. Just because he thought his father was a hateful person doesn't mean Harry's grief for him was any less real. It wasn't exactly surprising that she would have dealt with it in her usual way, with a flood of alcohol.

It hurt, a bit, that she hadn't bothered to phone him once in the weeks since, of course, but … that was Harry.

And anyway, it wasn't why they were here.

He let her talk of their father until their orders came, eating his risotto with enjoyment as she rambled on about how sad it was they had never made up their quarrel before the end. He nodded periodically and let the words wash over him. Finally, though, as the plates were cleared away, he said, "I spoke to David yesterday."

"You … what?"

"David. Our cousin, David. He wanted to hire a detective to find me and picked my flatmate, of all people. Do you know, I think Sherlock was more disappointed at how easy the case was than surprised to find out my father was an Earl. But, anyway, the point is that he was looking for me." He studied her across the table. "Did you know David is the executor of Father's estate?"

Harry nodded, eyes wide and suddenly vulnerable. "What … what did he want?"

John stifled a sigh and tried to keep his voice, his face calm and compassionate. "What do you think, Harry?"

She leaned back in her chair, boneless. "It's the title, isn't it?"

"Yeah. No matter how our father tried, he couldn't argue with the law—the earldom goes to the oldest son, period. I'm sorry."

"No, you're not," she said, voice sharp now. "You've wanted this since you were a child—always knowing you'd get the estate because you were the _boy_. Never caring that I was oldest. Not even caring enough to stick around, but now you come waltzing back to dance over his grave, and I won't have it! You can't! You were supposed to be gone!"

John glanced around the room, noting the eyes turning to watch them. "I can't change any of that, Harry," he told her. "And you _know_ how little I want this title. I never have. I would have been happy for you to inherit, since it means so much to you."

He managed not to wince as he said the words, because in fact, it didn't matter how much Harry would have wanted the title, she would have been awful. Alcohol notwithstanding, she had no self-control and too much a sense of self-worth. She would have run the estate into the ground with parties and benefits—anything to draw attention to herself. She was too much like their father that way. John spared a moment to wonder what the estate finances looked like after three years of their father's care.

But that wasn't the issue right now. He wasn't interested in pulling up the old sibling rivalry, and he certainly wasn't interested in causing his sister more pain, because that was not the kind of man John Watson was. He could fight both physically and verbally when necessary (and there was no denying he had a temper), but it simply wasn't in him to cause hurt for no reason, certainly not in cold blood.

And so he looked at the bitter, angry face of his only sister and said, "I need your help."

"My…" She sounded utterly startled. "You must be joking."

"Not at all," John assured her. "I need you, Harry. Think about it—I haven't even been to Undershaw in twenty years…"

"And whose fault is that?"

He clenched his jaw, trying not to grind his teeth together. "I'll admit to half the blame, but you know full well that it was Father who kept me out. I would have reconciled years ago if I thought he would meet me halfway—even a third. But again, that's not the point. The point is that I don't have any experience at this kind of thing. I haven't been an active member of the family in two decades. I haven't attended a formal dinner except those in the army, haven't raised money for charity … none of the things that you've been busy doing."

This was laying it a bit thick, he thought, but he knew his sister. She was a bigger drama queen than Sherlock was, and more than that, she had always loved being the centre of attention. In his less charitable (i.e., realistic) moments, he often thought that was the sole reason she had always wanted to be Earl—so she could be the focal point of just about any room she was in.

It was true, though, that since she loved the spotlight and didn't mind attending glitzy charity events and such (so long as they might get her picture in the paper), she had more experience—and more visibility—as an active member of the Brandon family than John currently did. Not that he thought that being Earl meant going to snazzy parties and waving at cameras. That vision of the peerage was only held by little girls and odd, Royalty-star-struck Americans. To him, it meant long hours of boring work spent pouring over papers and reports and … ugh.

"You really think I'm going to help you?" Harry was asking, her voice biting though the sudden chill in the air.

He blinked at her, face as open and innocent as he could manage. "Isn't that what sisters do? More importantly, isn't that what Brandons do? No matter whose fault it is we're in this mess, we need to deal with it, and doesn't that mean family solidarity is key? That's the one thing Father always insisted on."

She sniffed. "_Now_ you want to play that card? It's a bit late, isn't it John? Twenty years too late?"

He stared down at his napkin, lips pursed. "I left because he told me what I wanted to do with my life wasn't 'good enough' for a Brandon, and the only way to keep from doing harm to the family name—according to Father—was for me to leave. Which I did. _For_ the family, which you know full well, because you're the only person I've been in touch with since that summer. If anyone had needed me, I would have been back in a flash—like I am now."

John looked up and was horrified to see tears in his sister's eyes. "I needed you," she said.

And that was the worst part, he thought, because she probably had. Harry had never been able to take care of herself. It would have been different if their mother hadn't died so young, perhaps, but Harry's life was a series of catastrophe after catastrophe. John might have no illusions that he could have prevented any of them, but he still felt guilty every day for not being around to help her pick up the pieces. The fact that she would have been screaming at him and complaining the entire time, like when they were children, didn't matter. Despite his best efforts, he was a failure as a brother. "Well," he finally said, "I'm here now, and this time, I need you."

She glared at him for a long moment and then rose from her chair. "I'll fulfil my family duties, _my lord_, if that's what you're worried about. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have things to do."

He watched her go and, as happened all too often when he was with Harry, thought longingly of a drink.

Still, she had said she would help. That might come down to nothing more than standing at his side for photos, but considering it was Harry … that might be for the best.

John leaned back in his chair and waved the waiter over to ask for some tea. He wasn't surprised at all when Sherlock appeared and took Harry's vacated seat. "Make that for two," he told the waiter as he looked at his flatmate.

"You've been here the whole time," John said. It wasn't even a question.

"Of course," Sherlock said. "She's going to be trouble, you know."

"That's Harry," said John. "She should be okay as long as she feels she's getting enough attention—and considering what a field day the Press are going to have with this, I don't think that's going to be a problem."

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "That's not going to be a problem at all."

#

Before John needed to worry about the Press, though, he had another gantlet to run—that of meeting his family again for the first time in two decades.

He consulted with David as to the best way to manage this, but he knew he didn't have much time. Now that Harry knew that he knew that David knew … well, time was of the essence. She might not hurry straight out to sabotage him by telling tales to the family—she loved being in on a secret too much to ruin it too quickly—but that didn't mean he could drag his feet for long.

So, as soon as they were back at Baker Street, he called David to explain the situation. "I'm thinking a mass e-mail probably isn't the way to go," he concluded.

There was a laugh down the phone line. "_No, I don't think that would be the best choice_," his cousin said. "_Though you could accomplish the same thing simply by telling Aunt Sara_."

"It frightens me that she's as much a gossip as ever."

"_Worse_."

"Lovely," said John, thinking hard. "Right. So the mass e-mail is out, telling Aunt Sara would work, but puts too much of a burden on the poor soul. We could call everyone together for a denouement like something out of an Agatha Christie novel, but that takes time—and is overly melodramatic for my taste. What else is there? Phone calls? Send a press release?"

"Carrier pigeons?" he heard from the direction of the couch, but he waved a hand, ignoring that.

"_A press release would certainly do the job, but it's not the most diplomatic way to spread news among family members._"

"Tell that to Harry," John said with a sigh. "How do you think I learned my father was dead?

"_She didn't_," David's voice came, appalled. "_She didn't call to tell you your father was dead? I thought the two of you kept in touch?_"

"She was distraught, apparently," John said, shaking his head at the sounds of disbelief coming over the phone. "But it doesn't matter now—though I'd rather avoid doing the same thing to Aunt Sara and the rest. I don't know that I'm ready for the whole family at once, though. How many _are_ there in the immediate family, these days?"

He tried to concentrate as David started running down names and ages, but he soon lost track. How had his family gotten so big? His grandfather had had three children, each of whom had had at least two children of their own, and now his generation had added even more … and he was supposed to be head of the family? How on earth had that happened? He didn't even know these people.

"Right," he said finally, "Let's do this: you call Aunt Sara and arrange a meeting and we'll spring the news on her together. If you think James or one or two of the others should be there, fine. I'll ask Harry to come, but otherwise—that's as much family togetherness as I can handle for this first meeting. After that, we'll give Aunt Sara time to do her thing with the family grapevine while you help me draft a press release for a day or two from now. Sound reasonable?"

"_Very tactful_," David said. "_I confess to being surprised. I would have expected something more along the lines of orders from an ex-army surgeon_."

"Not until I need to give them. Why alienate people if you don't have to? Good will is priceless."

"_That sounds just like Aunt Helen_."

"Yes, well, my mother was a wise woman," John said.

"_One more question. Do you want to go to Aunt Sara? Or bring them to your house_?"

"Oh, I don't think our flat would be a good idea…"

"_No, John. Nor your flat. Your actual house_."

John was silent for a moment. How had he forgotten that he'd inherited a house along with the title. Two houses, at least, counting the Undershaw estate. "I … hadn't given that a thought."

David chuckled. "_I thought not. You forgot you had one, didn't you? And having the meeting on your own ground would underscore your right to the title, if anyone needs the reminder. And it IS your house._"

"That's going to take some getting used to," John said, eyes drifting around the friendly clutter of 221B. "It seems unnecessarily heavy-handed for a first meeting, though, and Aunt Sara is getting on in years … though don't tell her I said so. I say we go to her, so long as you don't think it's rude of us to invite James also. Even if I'm the titular head of the family, heaven help us, there's no reason not to show respect to the oldest member."

"_Tactically sound_," David agreed. "_Save the big guns in case you need them_."

"I only use guns when there's no other option," John said, ignoring the snort of disbelief from the other side of the room. "Let me know when you have something set up with Aunt Sara. And, thanks for doing this, David."

There was a chuckle. "_I could say I'm doing this from a sense of duty to the new head of the family, but honestly, I confess that I'm looking forward to seeing their faces. Right now, it's the best entertainment in town_."

"Well, I try." John couldn't help grinning back, even though his cousin couldn't see him. "And I know exactly what you mean. Frankly, I'm just sorry I didn't get to see Sherlock's face when you brought him the case. He would have known the minute you showed him the picture."

"Sooner," came a rumbling baritone from the other side of the room. "The minute he mentioned Harry."

"He says he knew when you mentioned Harry," John dutifully repeated into the phone.

"_Maybe so, but he hid it extremely well_," David said. "_I had no idea he'd solved it until I walked into the drawing room and saw you standing there—but then, Mycroft hid it just as well. It must be a Holmes thing. Even in our line of work, Mycroft's poker face is exceptional_."

"It doesn't surprise me," John said.

They chatted for another couple of minutes while David threatened John with a welcome-back party ("_My wife insists_"), but it wasn't long before John was able to put down the phone and lean his head back against his chair. "I'm already exhausted."

"Not surprising. Resurrection is a tiring business, John," said Sherlock.

John gave a small huff, too tired to give a real chuckle. "And you know this from experience?"

"Hardly, but it stands to reason."

"I suppose." John turned his head to look at his flatmate. "This is going to change things, you know. Me being an Earl."

"You probably won't need a flatshare anymore," Sherlock said, voice tight.

"Maybe not financially," John replied and, when Sherlock looked over, he gave a nod. "Doesn't mean I don't want to be here, Sherlock."

Sherlock just blinked a moment and then gave a lazy shrug. "Naturally. 221B is where the action is, and you know you can't resist that."

"Action? If you want to see action, Sherlock, just watch my sister over the next week or two. I can guarantee you that at some point, she will provide plenty of action."

#


	5. Chapter 5

John had a headache.

The meeting with the immediate family had been … interesting. True to his word, David had not given any clues as to exactly why he had called the meeting. They had figured out it was about his search for John, but … when John walked in, it had been a surprise, to say the least.

David had agreed with Sherlock that John's uniform made a good visual aid and had requested he wear it again. John still wasn't happy about this inclination to use his hard-won captain's uniform as some kind of fancy dress, but he could see the point, more or less. A (real) uniform did immediately command a certain amount of respect and vouched for at least some ability and authority. If it helped convince them he hadn't faffed his life away, well, that was all to the good. Better than reading his blog—because while he liked to think he was helpful to Sherlock, he had no illusions about his ability as a writer.

He had lingered in the hallway while David went in to break the news, but it wasn't long before his cousin's text alert buzzed through, telling him to come in.

"So, you're saying that John has been in the army all this time? But, David, how is that possible? Jonathan would have said!" his Aunt Sara was saying as John edged the door open.

"Not when he didn't want John in the army at all, Aunt Sara," David said, nodding toward John.

"Or be a doctor, either," John said as he came in, startling the others, "Which is why I went ahead and did both."

"Oh, my goodness," his aunt exclaimed, eyes moist. "John Brandon, is that really you?"

He crossed the room, pacing steadily across the carpet. (The uniform always had odd effects on his posture and walking patterns.) "I'm sorry if you worried."

"Of course we worried! Come here, let me look at you."

Trying not to stand at attention, he paused in front of her, taking in the toll two decades had taken on his favourite aunt. "You're looking well."

She waved a hand, as dismissive as Sherlock ever was. "That doesn't matter. Tell me what you've been doing."

"Army doctor," John said shortly. "Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"But we checked the army," came another voice and John turned to look at his cousin James.

"I know. I used my mother's maiden name, which was apparently craftier than I ever dreamed since nobody made the connection. I've gone by John Watson the last twenty years."

"The army, though," his aunt breathed. "You could have been killed."

John forced a smile. "But I wasn't. And I'm back in London now—have been for about six months now."

"You didn't say anything, though, when you heard about Uncle Jonathan's death?" James asked.

"I didn't know I needed to," John said. "There was nothing in the press that said you were looking for me, and I thought he had disowned me decades ago. I wasn't going to push in where I wasn't wanted."

"Not wanted?" Aunt Sara was looking more and more distressed. "How could you think that?"

John bent to lay his hand over hers, trying not to acknowledge how bird-like her bones felt. "All I knew was that my father was quite … adamant … about my not returning. I didn't mean to cause any of you any grief, but I had no choice while he was alive—not even to ease Grandfather's mind. Once Father died, though … well, I didn't want to look like I was just after an inheritance that might not even be mine anymore. But when David came looking for me, that changed things."

"How did he find you, after all these years? Was it Harry?"

Where was Harry, anyway, thought John, as he answered. "No. Ironically, the detective David hired to search for me is my flatmate—he didn't have to look far."

"Flatmate?" James asked, sounding sceptical. "Why would you need a flatmate?"

"Living on an army pension in London isn't easy, James," John said, trying not to think about why James had always been one of his least favourite cousins. He wished the man hadn't needed to be there, but he would never have forgiven John for having this conversation with his mother without him. "I share with the Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes. His brother recommended him to David and, well, here we are."

"But Harry," his aunt pressed. "Did she know?"

"More than the rest of you, but not much more. We talked on the phone maybe once a year—just enough for me to keep tabs on her—but she never initiated it. It was always me calling her." He had moved to an empty chair by now. "It really is all right, you know," he told his aunt gently. "I didn't want to worry anyone. I'm sorry."

"So now that Uncle Jonathan is dead, you come right back to take advantage, eh?" his cousin James asked.

"No," John said calmly, "I didn't do anything until David came looking for me."

James was all but glaring now. "Family meant that much to you? It's just the title you're interested in?"

"Not at all," John said, fighting to keep his voice calm. "I _couldn't_ come back before, and I told you—I didn't want just this kind of speculation about my motives if I stepped forward now. I waited until someone contacted me because it was the only thing I could think to do. It's not like I could hold my own press conference introducing myself and giving the entire family collective heart attacks, now could I?"

Not to mention that he'd been rather busy just then, being strapped into a bomb, but he didn't think this was really the time to bring that up. But, God, what would Moriarty have done with this information? What would he do now?

"…John?"

"Oh, sorry. I just had a … thought," he said. A truly terrifying, horrifying thought. "I got distracted."

"He asked," came Harry's voice by the door, "What you were going to do now? Hello, everyone. I'm sorry I'm late."

"Harry," John said, rising to give her a peck on the cheek. "I'm glad you're here."

"Really?" He couldn't tell if she was surprised or just being sarcastic.

"Yes, really. You know Aunt Sara's always liked you best."

"That's true," she said, crossing to their aunt. As she greeted everyone, John just shook his head. Drama queen. She had probably been standing outside for the last fifteen minutes, waiting to make a dramatic entrance. He couldn't deny he was glad to see her, though. Difficult though his sister could be, after twenty years, she was the closest thing to a familiar face in the room.

#

Now, days later, he just shook his head at his own naiveté. To be fair, Harry hadn't gone out of her way to be difficult, but even at her best, his sister was an attention-whore. Worse even than Sherlock, she loved being the centre of attention, and after having told how devotedly she had kept in touch with John during his exile (to the sound of tiny violins), the conversation had turned back to John's forthcoming resurrection … and he had watched her stew, knowing trouble was brewing.

It wasn't like he hadn't expected it, but at least it was with family—and all of them knew Harry's personality.

No, that meeting had gone as well as could be expected.

The problem was Harry's press blitz.

It was days later. True to form, Aunt Sara had spread the word of John's miraculous return along the family grapevine. His blog was suddenly overflowing with comments from cousins he could barely remember, and it was only a matter of time before the whole thing exploded out of control. So far, though, things were going according to plan.

He—with David's help—sent out press releases announcing himself as the heir to the title and giving a very brief history of where he'd been for the last twenty years. He mentioned being an army doctor but left his name change out of it. He had hoped that would be enough.

It might have been, too … until Harry got involved.

She dialled up the editor of the _Daily Mail_, of all papers, and sold her story as the sister of the long-lost Earl of Undershaw. She quite frankly threw their father under the bus by saying he'd kicked John out at 18, and then she talked about how he'd vanished, except for her brave efforts at keeping in touch. "I was the only one he could talk to," she was quoted. "I think that, if it weren't for me, he might have disappeared forever, he was so distraught."

"Oh my God," John said as he read the article that morning. "I can't believe she did this."

He hadn't even finished the article before his phone was ringing. And ringing. And _ringing_. That's what he got for giving his number out to the family, he thought.

"What is all the fuss?" Sherlock asked, opening his eyes.

"Bloody Harry gave an interview," John said, throwing down the paper, and then swearing as he saw the one underneath. "No, wait. More than one, apparently. The poor, abandoned sister, whose valiant efforts to keep in touch are apparently the only reason I didn't disappear into the wild unknown years ago. How about that, Sherlock? It's thanks to Harry I'm here at all."

Sherlock had pulled himself to his feet now, drifting over to the table. "How very selfless of her. Perhaps I should send her flowers in gratitude."

"Maybe you should. Or you could save your money and just send them to her funeral because I'm going to kill her," John said, punching at his phone as he scrolled through the contacts.

"Thank you for the heads up," Sherlock said. "I'll know to ignore Lestrade's call when it comes."

"Good. Time for a head start as I flee the country, then," John said, then turned his attention to the phone. "Harry? What the hell were you thinking?"

"_What? I was just trying to help, big brother. Didn't I tell you I would help with the press, that I knew people?_"

"I didn't think you meant selling your story to the bloody _Daily Mail_, Harry," John said, exasperated. "We only just sent the press releases out yesterday and now, this? What were you thinking?"

"_I don't understand the problem, John._" Harry's voice was icy now, and John wanted to reach through the phone and shake her. "_I was under the impression you wanted to let people know why you were gone and why you chose to come back now. Didn't I cover that?_"

"Oh, you covered it all right. You made our father sound like a monster and me like I've been running scared for twenty years. It wasn't like that at all, and you know it."

"_You don't think Father was a monster?_" The question came clipped and hard-pressed.

John sighed. "Well, maybe … but that's not something you say to the press. Even I know that, Harry. The point is that this little press junket of yours is just going to make things worse."

"_How?_"

"Instead of a dry little piece that would hopefully have just slid in quietly, we're now a bare step away from a full-fledged scandal because you told the goddamn bloody press that our father, the Earl of Undershaw was a monster. You just barely stopped this side of saying he was abusive and all but implied that he threw me out into a raging blizzard without shoes. Not only does that hurt the family reputation, it's also a vote of no confidence for me, the new Earl. I haven't even thought about the title in twenty years, Harry. Trying to learn the ropes was already going to be hard—and now I'm being strangled by them."

Now there was a sigh from the other end of the line. "_You're exaggerating, and if this is how you appreciate my efforts on your behalf, maybe I just won't help at all!_"

She disconnected, and John stared at the phone for a long moment. "Pity it's too late for that to happen. What a nightmare. I really am going to kill her."

"What did she say?" Sherlock asked.

"That she thought this would _help_, but I know her. She just wanted the attention and was afraid if she waited any longer, nobody would want her story." John stared at the pile of papers for a moment, and then winced as his phone rang again. "Apparently everyone in the family knows my number now. I just hope the name Watson stays out of the press. If it doesn't, I really am going to kill her."

"Hmm," agreed Sherlock, leaning his head back again. "And if you don't put your phone on vibrate and stop that annoying ringing, I might even help."

#

NOTE: I am aware that the Brandon family tree has fluctuated a bit from story to story, but just go with it. John, his parents, Harry, and cousin David are about the only members that are really fixed. Everyone else comes and goes and moves around the various tree limbs as the story requires. Oh, and no, I'm really not going to write an installment where John and Sherlock knew each other as kids. That would completely change the canon of how they met and became flatmates, and that is something that I'm leaving as untouched as I possibly can. At most they might have bumped into each other at some formal kind of party or something, but that would have been in passing and, just … no. They never went to school together. That's been done by far too many other writers for me to have any interest in treading that ground myself. Believe me, I've got enough ideas for further permutations. I really do not need to go that far back.


	6. Chapter 6

The only thing John was thinking as he followed Sherlock onto the crime scene was how grateful he was that the papers hadn't yet connected John Brandon, Earl of Undershaw with John Watson, ex-army doctor and blogger. He had managed to keep his photo out of the papers so far, so with the small exception of a handful of people, his title was still a secret to the people he worked with.

And so he walked into the restaurant with confidence that, here at least, he'd be able to concentrate on the job at hand (i.e., watching Sherlock's back to make sure he didn't do anything irredeemably stupid). It was a pleasant change, in fact, from the boring paperwork he and David had been trudging through these last few days.

"Sherlock, John," Lestrade greeted them as they ducked under the police tape. "This is a little different. We have the suspect in custody and a room full of witnesses, but well, one of them is … upset."

"Really?"

"Well, having someone stabbed in front of you isn't something you really expect at a high class place like this. She's a little distraught—not to mention she managed a couple of drinks to calm her nerves before we got here. This way." Lestrade led them through the lobby. "I figure that's the only possible explanation, since she asked to see you."

"Me?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows lifted.

"I said she was confused, didn't I?" Lestrade asked with a grin. "But actually, she asked for John."

Well, that was different, thought John. "Did she say why? Who is she, someone I know?"

"I doubt it, apparently she's the daughter of an Earl, one Harriet Brandon. She was lunching with the vic—a reporter from _The Sun_—when the waiter attacked him with a knife from the carving station. She's been a bit hysterical since. My guess is that she reads your blog, John."

This last was said with another grin, but John couldn't bring himself to respond. His _sister_ had witnessed a murder?

"John? Do you know her after all?" Lestrade was looking concerned, and even Sherlock was watching John now.

John stammered for a moment, and then said, "Er, yeah. I do."

He thought about adding more, mentioning their actual relationship, but by then he could hear Harry up ahead. "Look, I just need a drink. I _need_ one. Even my brother would understand this time."

"I would, but that doesn't mean it's a good idea." John said as he pushed in the door, finding Harry practically begging Donovan for a drink. "You've been doing so well, Harry."

"John!" Harry practically lunged at him, careless of her blood-spattered clothes. "What took you so long?"

He caught her arms, trying to hold her off. He was something of an expert with bloodstains these days, but he'd rather avoid them if he could. "Why didn't you call me, Harry?"

"I was trying to respect your cover, isn't that what you wanted me to do?" she asked, voice quavering.

"Cover?" Donovan asked, suddenly suspicious. "What cover?"

"She's exaggerating," John said, "Because she likes to be dramatic, don't you, Harry? But you're okay? Not hurt?"

"Not hurt? Look at me!" She gestured to the blood on her clothes. "This is ruined!"

"If you're worrying about your clothes, I'm going to assume you're in one piece," John told her. "What happened, Harry?"

"I had an interview with that nice Mr Robinson who writes for the _Sun_. He wanted to know all about … about…" She paused, looking at him with wide eyes.

"About your brother the Earl, right," John said calmly, ignoring the questioning looks he was getting from Lestrade and Donovan.

"Right. My brother." Harry nodded emphatically and John sighed, wondering how many drinks she had managed to get before Donovan cut off her supply. "But while we were talking, the waiter came over … or I thought he was a waiter … but he had an enormous knife in his hand, and before I even realized, he stabbed him! Over and over! There was blood everywhere, and I just screamed…"

She shuddered, voice trailing off as John pulled her down to sit in an empty chair, crouching beside her. "What happened next?"

"That was the worst part. He just stood there, looking _proud_. He didn't even try to resist when one of the other waiters came over and tackled him. But, poor Mr Robinson…"

John glanced over at Lestrade, busy taking notes. The detective waved him on, so John looked back at Harry. "Did he say anything?"

"Mr Robinson?"

"No, the waiter. Did he say anything before he attacked?"

"He said something like 'this is for my sister'," Harry said. "I remember because for a second I was almost flattered that he meant me, that I reminded him of his sister, but then I saw the knife and…"

John rubbed circles on her knee. "Had he been your waiter the whole time? Or was that the first time you saw him?"

"First time," she said, voice definite. "I would have remembered. He reminded me of Ian, remember him? Ian Blackwell? The resemblance was quite striking … before all the blood."

"Good, I'm sure that's very helpful." He looked over at Lestrade. "Any more questions you need answered right now? If not, I'd like to get her home."

"Well, we need a formal statement…"

"But your case is fairly straightforward, isn't it, Inspector? Lots of witnesses, the suspect in custody? There's no reason Harry can't at least go home and change clothes?"

He saw Lestrade's brow crinkle. "I suppose … though I'd be happier getting a full statement before…" He made a drinking gesture with his hand, and John sighed.

With a nod, John pulled Harry to her feet. "Right. You're going to go to the loo and wash your hands, and then Sgt Donovan will give you a ride to the station so you can make your statement all nice and official. Then I can either go to your place to get you a change of clothes. Or, if you'd rather, I can call someone to bring you something and I'll ride along to keep you company."

Harry looked up at him, eyes slightly bleary, but full of a wistfulness he hadn't seen in years. "You'd come with me?"

"Of course," he told her. "Go wash your hands. I'll be here when you come out."

He already had his phone in his hands, dialling Harry's house, holding up a hand to the querying faces in front of him. "Clara? It's John. Harry needs a change of clothes … No, it's not her fault this time. She's the primary witness to a murder and is a bit … blood-splattered. We're heading to the Yard now, but she really needs … you will? Brilliant. What? Well, yeah, she did a bit. I can understand it this time, though. Right. Good. I'll see you there."

He hung up and turned to the others. "Clara will meet us there with a change of clothes. Harry will be much calmer if she feels she looks presentable—it's the first thing to know about her. Always make sure she's happy with the way she looks, whenever possible."

There was silence for a moment and then Sherlock (naturally) was the first to speak. "Clara? But I thought…"

"They're trying again," John told him.

"So … Are you dating our witness, John?" Lestrade asked. "You two obviously know each other."

Donovan added, "A bit out of your league, isn't she, doctor?"

"Not dating, and no, I wouldn't think so," John answered them, keeping a tight rein on his temper, "Considering she's my sister. Which is why we know each other so well. Clara is her ex-wife."

"But, wait. She said she was being interviewed about … her brother the Earl?" At John's nod, Lestrade continued, "Do … do you have any other siblings, John?"

"And there's the other shoe," murmured Sherlock, who had been watching the proceedings with great interest.

"No, just me and Harry," John said. "And yes, our father was an earl, right up until he died in a car crash a few months ago."

Donovan looked stunned. "So, if your father was an earl, and he's dead, does that make you…?"

"The Earl of Undershaw," John said with a nod. "Yes."

"But … that was all over the news. The heir had been missing or something, in the army…." Lestrade's voice trailed off. "But the name wasn't Watson."

"No." John drew himself up and gave a short bow. "John Hamish Watson Brandon, Earl of Undershaw, at your service. I haven't gotten used to the title yet—the only ones I'm used to are Captain and Doctor, so I'm still adapting. Ah, there's Harry. Shall we go?"

He stepped forward to offer his arm to his sister, and then turned toward the door, ignoring the dropped jaws and blank stares. If he hadn't been so worried about Harry, shaking as she gripped his arm, he would probably have enjoyed that. He glanced back at the one person who hadn't been caught flat-footed at the surprise, relieved to see Sherlock looking intrigued rather than bored. "Did you want to look at the crime scene before we go?"

Sherlock waved a hand. "Not necessary. There are enough witnesses in addition to your sister to make clear what happened. Presumably the victim was attacked because of his slanderous articles. Really, all things considered, your sister is fortunate she was unable to finish telling her story. Robinson was one of the worst of the tabloid reporters."

Harry's head lifted. "Mr Robinson was lovely," she said. "He was so funny through lunch and so interested in what I had to say."

"Yes, well that's because that was his job," John told her. "He was meant to be charming to get good stories—but he wasn't exactly the kind of man you'd want to tell your life story to. Or more importantly, mine."

"You're exaggerating. I was just trying to help."

"Of course you were," John said, directing her toward the street as Sherlock lifted an arm to hail a taxi. "I thought we'd discussed this, though."

"I already had the appointment," she mumbled. "It seemed rude not to come."

John just shook his head. "And yet, look how much better it would have been if you hadn't. You wouldn't have witnessed a murder and gotten the family into the papers in an even more lurid way than before."

"Lurid, John?" Sherlock put in. "I hardly think this qualifies…"

"Shut up, Sherlock. It's close enough. Not only have the papers gone wild over my father's death and my own … resurrection … now we're involved with quite literally a bloody murder. If they find that out…"

The words were barely out of his mouth when a camera flash went off in his face.

"Mr Holmes! Can you tell us what happened? Why are you here?"

"Oh, Christ," muttered John, trying to keep his head down, concentrating on getting Harry to the car. When the hell had Sherlock become so popular to the press? And God knew the last thing he needed was for them to recognize Harry—with her recent bout of articles for the press (not to mention the identity of the victim), it would be all too easy for them to identify her, and then…

"Miss Brandon? Harry Brandon! Can you tell us what happened? Were you there? Why are you covered with blood?"

Before John could stop her, Harry lifted her head. "Yes, it was horrifying! I've never seen someone killed before. I was so upset, naturally I called my brother to come help."

Damn.

Damn it.

_Damn!_

John watched as the reporter automatically looked at Sherlock, tall and elegant in his great coat, and then saw his eyes scan back to Harry … and John. The reporter blinked, obviously assimilating the luck of a scoop of a lifetime, and immediately turned to John. "Dr Watson, is it? Or … should I call you Mr Brandon? Lord Undershaw?"

John nudged Harry forward, into the cab Sherlock had ready, and tried not to think about the audience. "I'm just here with Sherlock to help with the investigation. Miss Brandon is quite distraught, and I'm just here to help."

He tried to ignore the flashes as pictures were taken—when had photographers arrived, anyway? He slid into the cab next to Harry as Sherlock walked to the other side, face neutral as he also ignored the spectators. John stared straight ahead as the cab pulled out into traffic and tried to resist the temptation to look back, only giving in as the cab turned at the corner. He could see Lestrade and Donovan on the pavement, mouths agape, as the eager reporter spoke hurriedly into his phone.

"Christ," John said. "What just happened?"

"You were just outed as the Earl of Undershaw," Sherlock told him with a smirk. "Or as good as, anyway. If that reporter has any talent at all, he and his paper will be digging into your history before we're even at the Yard."

John nodded, sparing a glare for Harry, sitting numbly in the middle of the seat. "You just had to sell your story to the press, didn't you? Even though I told you not to. And with your always incredible luck, you just happened to pick the day the Sun reporter got himself murdered, which naturally drew all his compatriots to the scene like locusts, just in time to see us exit and for you to mention I was your brother. I mean, really, Harry!"

"It's not my fault," she said, whining. "Really, Johnny, I didn't do it on purpose."

John stared out the window. "No, I know you didn't. If you'd had any of this planned, you would have insisted on changing your clothes before going in front of the press."

"To be fair," Sherlock said from the other side of the car, "She didn't actually say you were her brother—just that she called her brother. The reporter drew his own conclusions."

"That doesn't help," John said. "Unless you'd like to pose as her brother?"

Sherlock glanced at Harry with distaste. "Thank you, no."

"It wouldn't hold up, anyway," John said with a sigh as he pulled out his phone to call David. "Hi, David? It's John. We have a bit of a situation…"

#


	7. Chapter 7

To Harry's barely-hidden disappointment, they made it to New Scotland Yard ahead of the ravening horde of Press presumably converging on them. The alcohol in her system had mellowed her enough at this point that she was no longer worried about her appearance—and would blurt out just about anything. In other words, a reporter's dream.

John was relieved that she wouldn't be able to cause any more damage—for now—but she'd done enough. David had reported that news of John's pseudonym and investigations with Sherlock Holmes was already spreading through unofficial channels. "They're probably digging up my birth certificate as we speak," John said.

"_I'm afraid so_," David said. "_But what's this about Harry being involved in a murder?_"

"Not in the murder itself, just a witness to it. She was having lunch with a reporter from _The Sun_, for god's sake, when he was murdered right in front of her. The only thing she can be blamed for is having enough bad taste to be there in the first place since I had already asked her not to speak to any more reporters, but it's not her fault that the killer decided to act while she was there. Or at least I hope not."

"_Indeed. And you're at the Yard now?_"

"Yeah—luckily without a crowd of reporters outside, but I don't know how long that's going to last. I'm thinking this is going to need more than just a press release, though." John scanned the room, watching as familiar faces turned his way, disbelieving. "I'm starting to feel like I'm inside a goldfish bowl."

A chuckle. "_Ah, because you don't look enough like an Earl?_"

"Something like that, but either way, if the news is spreading this fast here…"

"_I take your point. Will you be able to exit unnoticed? Or do we need to draft a statement immediately?_"

"It all depends on how long they need Harry," John said, starting to feel uncomfortable now with all the staring. "I'll get back to you."

He hung up just as Sherlock rounded a corner. "I see the vultures are circling."

"If that's what you want to call our police force," John said. "I was thinking more along the lines of a wolf pack, myself. But yeah—it looks like my secret identity isn't so secret anymore."

"You should have tried those spectacles I suggested."

John laughed. "I don't even want to know how Clark Kent retained a spot in your mind palace, but I don't think it would have helped."

Sherlock gave a shrug. "Too late to test it now. Has Lestrade been by yet … or Donovan?"

"No. I like to think they're busy talking to Harry, but part of me is convinced they're right around the corner, whispering and pointing."

"Close," Sherlock said with a smirk. "Very close. Ah, here's Anderson now."

"It can't possibly be true," the man said as he walked in the door. "You? An Earl?"

"It's not like I carry the coronet with me." John stifled a sigh as Donovan and Lestrade followed Anderson into the room. "Look, I thought we'd gone over this? Yes, I'm the Earl of Undershaw, but if you've been following the news, it's not a title I've had for long. It's not like I'm carrying business cards with me."

"ID, then?" Donovan asked, belligerent as always.

"My ID says John Watson, same as it has the last twenty years. I haven't used Brandon since I was 18—for reasons that are none of your business," he hastened to add.

"So you have no proof that you aren't lying, then."

"Why would I lie? It's not like I want this headache."

"Oh, I don't know," Anderson said. "A ploy for attention from the man who spends his time following around a psycho … sorry, _socio_path might be getting desperate for some attention of his own. Isn't it suspicious that the Earl of Undershaw's daughter—who has been doing everything _she_ can to get into the news—was our primary witness to this murder today? And that she called for you and the Freak to come down to the scene, just in time for more reporters to show up?"

"You're kidding, right?" John asked, utterly flabbergasted. "You think I _want_ this attention? Why do you think I dropped Brandon from my name in the first place?"

"Oh, don't blame him," Sherlock spoke for the first time, his voice a purring drawl. "Anderson is always desperately jealous of anyone stealing his attention—he can't comprehend that some might not crave it."

"That may well be true, Sherlock, but it doesn't help prove my identity. Were you hoping for a DNA test, perhaps?" John asked Anderson, unable to keep the distaste from his voice.

"Well, no…"

"Because why would I lie about this? About something so easy to prove or disprove? For a title I don't even want?"

Lestrade stepped forward, hands up, conciliatory as he so often was. "Look, John, that's not what we're saying. We're just surprised."

"And disbelieving," muttered Donovan.

"Proof is really quite simple," Sherlock said. "The executor of the former Earl's estate is an equerry at Buckingham Palace. David Brandon—his name has been all over the news. Call the palace, ask for David's extension, and then ask him exactly who John Brandon is. If, that is, you're not willing to take the word of a man you know who has honourably served his country as an army doctor, has been wounded in the line of duty, helps you out practically on a daily basis—and whose heritage goes back for centuries."

The three Yarders hesitated, looking slightly ashamed, but then Donovan pulled out her phone. She lifted her chin at the indignant noise John made, "I'm sorry, this is too important. I need to be sure," she said, as if any of this were her business. She began searching on her phone (not everyone had the palace phone number memorized, after all), and resolutely ignored the glare she was getting from Sherlock.

"You really left home at 18?" Lestrade finally asked, looking at John.

"Let's just say my father didn't approve of my career choice and leave it at that, yeah?"

"You meant to go in the army? It wasn't just a way to … er…"

"Get me off the street? No, it was always the plan. My father didn't approve of medicine or the army, which is why I did both," John said, eyes on Donovan, trying to manoeuvre the palace's phone system. "How's Harry doing?"

"What? Oh, shaking a bit now it's over, not quite as coherent as I'd like, but she should be along in a minute."

They were interrupted when someone opened the door. "Sir, I've got a Clara Fellowes here, looking for Harry Brandon?"

Lestrade nodded and waved in the worried-looking woman behind him. "Come in, please. Ms Fellowes? I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade."

John watched in admiration as the woman extended a hand, all grace and polish, and introduced herself. "My brother-in-law called to ask me to … John!"

"Clara," John said with a nod, going over to give her a kiss on the cheek. "It's good of you to do this."

"As if we would ever hear the end of it if she had to face the press again while covered in blood."

"True," John said. "This is Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, my friend and flatmate. That's Sgt Donovan over there on the phone, trying to navigate the phone tree at the palace, and this is…"

"Philip Anderson," the other man put in quickly staring now, and apparently awed by the confident elegance that had entered the room. "So, _you're_ John's sister-in-law?"

"Indeed. Well, ex, at the moment, but Harry and I are seeing if we can't change that. Either way, I'll always think of John as family, considering we practically grew up together."

"You … but…"

Clara had turned back to John, keeping one eye on the way Donovan was scowling at the wall, hand pressed to one ear as she punched at her phone. "Why is Sgt Donovan calling the palace?"

"She insists on being sceptical as to my identity," John said.

Clara laughed. "You knew the secret identity would come back to haunt you in the end, didn't I tell you?"

"It's not a secret identity," John said for what must be the millionth time. "Just because I started going by my mother's name … who knew something so simple would throw everyone so badly?"

"Ah, yes, Mr Brandon," Donovan's voice came across the room as she finally got through to a person. "This is Sgt Sally Donovan from Scotland Yard. I understand you're the executor of the Earl of Undershaw's estate…? Yes, you are? Good. We have an enquiry here, and I just need to confirm the identity of the current … yes, I'll hold." She looked utterly frustrated as she glanced around the room, still with a gleam of malice directed toward John … though that was less cutting since Clara walked in.

John's phone rang then. "Watson here." He listened briefly as his cousin started to explain the official enquiry on his other line. "Yes, in fact, Sgt Donovan is standing here in the room with me—she didn't want to believe Harry or me. Yes, David, I know. I need a new ID. I've been busy—mostly doing paperwork with you. Do feel free to cut through some of the red tape for me. No, I haven't seen Harry since we got here, but I'm sure she's fine. Clara's here with a change of clothes for her … yeah, exactly. You know how she is. She'll be much more sensible once she's dressed properly. Right. I know, but I don't exactly carry a change for myself. It's not like I was trying to look Earl-like when I left the flat this morning. … Mmm. Yeah, tomorrow afternoon unless this blows up on us sooner. See you then."

He shoved the phone back in his pocket and glanced toward Donovan, standing frozen with her phone to her ear, jaw slack. She came quickly back to life, though, when her call reconnected. "Yes, I'm still here. He is, actually … yes, I heard the whole thing. I'm sorry I … yes, thank you, I believe it's important to be cautious … well, I suppose it can be overdone, but in a case like this … no, Dr Watson hadn't given me any reason to doubt his word before…" She was glaring at John now, as if this polite dressing-down was his fault.

The air in the room had somehow gotten heavier as John's mood lifted. It was no doubt petty of him, but watching Donovan dig herself deeper into the hole she had started was doing wonders for his frame of mind. If nothing else, it was distracting him from the mess Harry had gotten herself in.

And, really, how stupid would he need to be to lie about something like this? Short of being a conman trying to steal from the estate, what possible motive could there be for lying about something so easily verified? Trying to get his name in the papers for being a fake? The entire idea was ridiculous. Besides, if he really wanted attention for himself, would he be following Sherlock Holmes around? The man drew every eye to himself—John might as well be invisible most of the time. If he were having self-esteem issues, This would be the last place he'd want to be.

It was just unfortunate that Donovan's distrust and dislike for Sherlock seemed to be spreading his way, now.

He glanced back up to see everyone staring at him. "I _asked_," said Donovan, obviously repeating herself, "Why you would keep this a secret? Not even counting when you left home twenty years ago—God knows why—but now? You just inherited a title, yet I didn't see the name Watson in any of the papers."

"I don't have to answer to you, Donovan," John told her, keeping his voice mild. "You don't know anything about my reasons, and they're frankly none of your business. I've lived my entire adult life as John Watson—which is, in fact, my legal name. I was born John Hamish Watson Brandon. All I did was drop the surname. I've done nothing wrong, then or now. And if the recent reports didn't make the connection? I wasn't exactly eager to do their job for them, knowing we would be besieged by the press. They can't resist a juicy story, and we were trying to do what we could to keep it _dry_. There's no ulterior motive here other than the fact that I'm not eager to have my entire life put under scrutiny. Would you be?"

"But … but that's different. Why would anyone be interested in my life?" Donovan asked, all but spluttering.

"Why should anyone be interested in mine? You're the one spending her life trying to solve crimes and identify the guilty—you have more immediate effect on a lot of lives than I do. Why would people be more interested in me? I'm just a former army doctor who happened to inherit a mostly meaningless title. If I had been the kind of person looking for attention and glory, Donovan, believe me. I could have found a job more glamorous than army captain."

"I didn't say that…"

"But you did. You didn't believe me when I said I didn't want the attention. If I wanted the spotlight, would I be hanging out with the Consulting Attention Magnet I share a flat with?" John shook his head. "No. You're just taking advantage of this opportunity to cause trouble, as if my sister being down the hall, covered in blood wasn't, just maybe, the _thing you should be focusing on?_"

It was satisfying, thought John, to use his Captain's voice again. He might be stepping over bounds, here, since it wasn't like he had any authority inside Scotland Yard, but it wasn't like Lestrade was doing anything to rein in his people. He glanced at the older man and saw him watching with a look mingled of satisfaction and regret that he hadn't said this himself. "Now, if someone could bring the clothes Clara brought to Harry—assuming she's done with her statement by now—maybe we could get on with this? I'm sure my sister is more than ready to go home. Unlike some of us, she's not exactly accustomed to seeing a man killed in front of her."

"What exactly did happen, John?" Clara asked.

"She was lunching with a reporter from the _Sun_who had the poor taste of getting himself stabbed by the waiter—or a man dressed like a waiter. While she was still coherent, Harry said he reminded her of Ian Blackwell."

"It _is_ Ian Blackwell," Lestrade said. "Apparently the vic wrote a story on him and his sister not long ago, one that skirted the edges of libel and cost Blackwell his job and his marriage. Your sister knows him?"

"We knew the Blackwell family growing up," John said, "I haven't seen any of them in years, as you can imagine, but I don't think Harry has, either. Clara? Do you know?"

"No. At least, he's not in our social circle. I do remember reading the story a month or two ago, though. I think Harry commented on it at the time, but that was just idle conversation over breakfast, nothing to suggest she had anything more than a passing acquaintance with him."

"Odd that she'd pick the same reporter for her own tell-all, then," Lestrade said.

"Not if she thought he was guilty," Clara said. "The article was less … lurid … than some in the _Sun_, yet it made a big splash. And, as much as I love Harry, I must admit that she enjoys being the centre of attention. The notoriety would have been more of a draw than the contrary, sad to say."

"I agree," said John. "Harry likes the attention and doesn't always think it through, the way she's getting it. She said Robinson was charming—she wouldn't have looked past that."

"Harsh words for your sister, doctor," said Anderson.

"I've been her brother my whole life, Anderson. I'm not blind to her faults," John said, "But that doesn't mean I'm happy about her witnessing a murder, either. I would have protected her from that, if I could."

Donovan sneered. "How very gallant and old-fashioned of you, your _Lordship_."

"It's not about the title, Donovan, it's about knowing what she can handle."

"I can handle more than you think, little brother." They all turned to see a weary looking Harry in the doorway. "Clara? What are you doing here?"

#

#

NOTE: It's really too much fun letting Donovan be nasty … and then brought down a peg. After S3, though, I'm feeling much more generous toward Anderson!


	8. Chapter 8

"Harry! Are you all right?" Clara rushed over as John's sister walked unsteadily into the room.

"You're all talking about me," Harry said. "It's all right. I expect nothing less. Just because this has been one of the worst days of my life…"

"No, Harry, don't say that," Clara said in a soothing voice. "We're just worried about you."

"Really?" She looked up, eyes hopeful.

"Of course. And, look. I brought you a change of clothes so you can get out of this … oh, Harry. Not the Chanel."

John's sister nodded. "I'll never get the stains out."

As the two of them commiserated over the wardrobe disaster, John and the others exchanged baffled glances. She had just seen a man killed, and it was her outfit she was most worried about? Even Donovan looked confused. John didn't know whether this was just another sign of Harry's extreme shallowness or a really bizarre defence mechanism. He liked to think it was the latter, but with his sister … he could never be sure.

Finally, though, he took a step forward. "You all right? Ready to go home?"

She sniffled a bit, clutching her garment bag to her chest. John offered an encouraging smile and then looked back at Lestrade. "Any way we can get a back door out of here? Clean clothes or not, it's probably best if we keep her away from the press for the rest of the day."

He tried to ignore the hurt look that crossed her face as Lestrade said he would see what he could do. He grabbed Donovan (still gawking) and ushered her and Anderson out the door, giving Sherlock a stern look before he left.

"Afraid I'll embarrass you again?" Harry asked bitterly the minute the door was closed. "Because that's all I do, isn't it? Embarrass my perfect brother. I'm such a bad influence. No wonder you left for twenty years—probably just wanted to get away from me."

"Harry, you know that's not true," John said, crouching in front of her. "You're the only reason I stayed in touch at all, you know that. It's just that the reporters have enough to talk about already. We don't need to give them more, not right now." He stood up and held out his hand. "What we do need is to get you home. Why don't you change into the outfit Clara brought you and then go home and try to forget all this."

She looked rebellious for a minute, but then nodded. "You're probably right. I'm not at my best right now."

John held the door for them, pointing to the ladies' room, and then turned back to Sherlock. "You've been quiet."

Sherlock nodded. "You didn't seem in the mood."

"Well, that's true. What a nightmare—and with every minute splashed all over the Press. We had it all planned," he said wearily. "A nice, dry, simple press release to announce that I was the new Earl, and that was supposed to be that. It's not that I didn't know they'd cotton on to John Watson and John Brandon being the same eventually, but … like this?"

"I did say Harry would cause a splash."

"You said she would cause trouble," John corrected him.

"And she has."

"And she has," John echoed, "Though I can't blame her for the actual murder."

"No, but…" Sherlock paused and then blinked. "You said she knew the killer, though."

"Ian Blackwell," John said with a nod, and then froze, staring at his flatmate. "You're not saying…"

"I'm not saying anything, just commenting that there is a prior connection between the killer and the prime witness—a witness known for enjoying the spotlight."

John's stomach was wringing itself tight, pulling all the moisture down from his mouth to convert to acid in his gut. Sherlock couldn't be saying…? "No," he said, protesting the entire idea. "You don't think she helped set Robinson up, do you?"

Sherlock gave a shrug as he reached for his coat. "No data, John, but it is an intriguing angle, don't you think? Ah, there they are."

"Intriguing? Maybe if it weren't my _sister_." John said as he tried to get his expression under control. If what Sherlock suspected was true … even Scotland Yard wasn't this stupid. Of course they would figure it out, and then where would Harry be? He wondered if she expected him to get her off, somehow, if she thought Sherlock would look the other way or lie for her, just because he was John's flatmate. If so, she didn't know Sherlock very well … he might have overlooked John shooting the cabbie, but John's sister? His irritating, perpetually annoying, selfish sister?

The worst part, John thought as he tried to rein in his runaway brain, was how quickly he had accepted that Harry might in fact have actually done this … and now little surprised he was.

Now was not the time, though. He met Sherlock's eyes, straightened his shoulders, and said, "Right. I'm going to see my sister home. If you need to do any … investigating … do what you need to do."

#

When John arrived home later (skirting the press camped outside by using Mrs Hudson's back door), he was relieved to find the flat empty. He needed a chance to sit and sift through the possible repercussions of what exactly had happened today.

He had watched Harry carefully as they took her home and fed her tea. He hadn't seen anything other than shock or horror, though—no glimpses of guilt or shame. Part of her had enjoyed the attention, of course (since this was Harry they were talking about), but even without Sherlock's skills, John was no slouch at reading people. The murder had shocked her, he was sure of it.

He wondered, for a bit, if it wasn't the murder itself but the amount of blood that had affected her, but finally decided, no. She was too surprised that Robinson was dead. "Tell me again, why you went to Robinson? When you knew about the hatchet job he'd done on poor Ian," John had asked.

She had just wanly moved her head back and forth in wordless protest. "I thought Ian was exaggerating. Mr Robinson was so charming … how could he have done that…?"

"Robinson?" John had asked, not missing her reference to knowing about Ian's story. "Or Ian?"

She'd looked at him blankly. "Either. Both. I know Ian had said Mr Robinson had ruined his life, but … how? And how could Ian have _done_ that?"

No, she hadn't expected the murder.

But she had helped arrange the meeting between the two men.

Indirectly or not, it was Harry's fault that Robinson was dead.

#

When Sherlock came in later, John was sitting in his chair, cup of tea in his hand—a conscious decision not to drink anything stronger. "You were right," he greeted his friend.

Sherlock paused as he took off his scarf, and then warily turned to look at John. "About the meeting. I know."

"She didn't know Ian was going to kill him."

"No." Sherlock came and sat in his chair, studying John.

"Does Lestrade know yet?"

"He was there when I spoke to Ian, yes."

John nodded, taking another deliberate sip of his tea. "You've got to hand it to her. When my sister causes trouble, she doesn't mess about."

"No, she doesn't."

John glanced over at his flatmate and heaved a sigh. "On the plus side, I suppose this will draw attention away from my sudden reappearance."

"Yes."

"But still, what a nightmare. Even if she's not guilty of the murder, she set up the meeting, which makes her an accessory … Jesus."

"From what Blackwell said, he used her to arrange it. Robinson had been avoiding all attempts to contact him, but when he saw Harry enthusiastically embracing her new role in the tabloids as the sister to the new, mysterious Earl of Undershaw, he told her about Robinson. He said he warned her against trusting any of them, but asked if she'd be willing to do him a favour as an old friend."

"Making sure Robinson was in a specific place at a specific time," John said.

"Exactly. Harry expected them to talk—Ian was quite clear that she had no idea that he had planned to kill Robinson. He said he wasn't entirely sure himself—it was as mostly an act of impulse when he saw the man. The knife from the carving station was conveniently there and … he acted without thought."

John gave another nod, feeling unbearably weary. "Of course he did. And of course Harry had no idea—she never, _ever_ thinks about what she's doing. She would have expected a shouting match and would have been chuffed to be sitting there, wide-eyed witness to the whole thing—right at the centre of the action. Anything for the attention. She would have been thrilled … the possibility of it escalating into violence, though? I'm surprised it didn't occur to her."

Sherlock tipped his head in agreement. "She might have been thinking of a romantic punch to the jaw, the table toppling like a scene from a movie."

"But not actual bloodshed," John said. "Exactly. The shock was legitimate. It wasn't just horror at having one of her favourite outfits ruined, either. She's never witnessed that kind of violence before, and didn't expect to now. The question now is, what is Lestrade going to do about it?"

The words were barely out of his mouth when there was a ring at the bell. Moments later, Lestrade was at their door. "John? We need to talk."

#

"So you see that I can't look the other way on this one," Lestrade concluded. "Not this time. The trail is too obvious—not to mention that Blackwell confessed to using your sister to set up the meet. Since she was unaware of his intentions … I don't see any real problem for her, but…"

"In the meantime, it's going to be a field day for the press," John finished for him.

"Yeah, exactly."

"Well, Harry wanted to draw attention to herself," John said, "Even if this wasn't exactly what she had in mind."

"I can try to keep her name out of it, to a point," Lestrade said, "It's not like the crime isn't dramatic enough as it is, but … it's a flashy killing of a tabloid reporter by one of his victims. The rest of the press is going to eat it up. They're going to be talking to every person in that restaurant—there's no way the person sitting at Robinson's table is going to be ignored, and when it comes out that not only was she there because she was selling her own story, but that she knew the perp…"

"More attention than she expected, right. We were just talking about that. She didn't expect Ian to kill him. By her lights, she probably felt she was doing a friend a favour. And if it got her into the papers, too … all the better. The murder, though—she wasn't expecting that. She may have colluded to put Richardson and Ian in the same place at the same time, but she never planned on Richardson being killed."

"Of course not," murmured Sherlock. "Then how would he write her story?"

John snorted. "I'm sure the milk of human kindness would have just flowed through that piece. But, anyway, Harry is selfish, vain, spoiled, and generally doesn't think things through, but she wouldn't have helped kill someone—especially in a way that left her drenched in blood. I just can't believe that's possible."

Lestrade nodded. "I agree with you, if it helps. Your sister is only guilty of poor judgement—it's just unfortunate that it led to a man being murdered. I don't know what the prosecutor is going to want to do, here, but my guess is this is not the kind of publicity your sister had in mind."

"Definitely not." John rubbed his forehead, hoping to stimulate ideas—or at least minimize the headache that had settled behind his eyes. "I'll call our attorney and get him on this right away. One thing my father was good about was making sure the family had proper legal representation. I might not be able to do anything about the press, but I can at least make sure she stays out of jail. And, who knows, maybe this time the press coverage will actually teach her a lesson."

"I hope so," Lestrade said, "If only for your sake. She seems like a handful."

"You have no idea," John told him. "In some ways, it's been a relief not to be responsible for her the last twenty years. And now I'm supposed to be the head of the whole family? God help me."

"What did happen, John? Back then?"

John glanced over and saw only honest concern—none of the disbelief or censure that Donovan had shown earlier. "Let's just say that Harry takes after my father in personality. He cared more for appearances than he probably should have, and felt my choice of a career would be a blight on the family honour, or something like. Since I was only eighteen and therefore stupid, I said that was what I wanted to do, and left. I dropped Brandon from my name and made my own way. That's it." He sighed again, then said, "And then my father died and because of truly ancient laws of succession, the title comes to me. A title I've barely thought of in twenty years. Like I said, God help us all."

"Oh, I don't know," said Lestrade with a cheerful grin. "You were an army captain and a surgeon—I think you're pretty capable when you put your mind to it. More than that, you're the only man I know who can manage Sherlock Holmes. Sounds like just what your family needs."

#


	9. Chapter 9

The next week was a nightmare—quite literally, because John couldn't sleep through the night without being woken by the terrors of his subconscious.

This surprised him because, after war and death and having been shot, you would think that his sister being circumstantially involved in a crime wouldn't affect him so strongly, but it did. Maybe it was because she was so obviously incapable of making a responsible decision about anything at all. He didn't doubt her role had been innocent (mostly)—publicity hound though she was, she wouldn't kill for a spot in the limelight. He was sure. Really.

In fact, her opinion of the press had changed drastically since this mess exploded over the front page. Harry had learned very quickly that the kind of attention one gets as a socialite is entirely different than that of a person involved in a messy, media-frenzy-generating murder. The fact that the victim was one of the worst kind of reporters himself just added to the flames, and Harry very quickly was regretting ever getting involved.

Too little, too late, as always, thought John, though he supposed he should be grateful. Even Harry's hind-sight had always been near-sighted. At least this time she was learning something. Theoretically. He hoped.

John and David, in the meantime, were busy doing damage control. John had made a statement about Harry's shock at witnessing a murder. As agreed, he'd done it from the steps of his father's house, not 221B. He had worn one of his good, expertly-tailored suits—as different from his usual jeans-and-jumper look as possible. While he had not denied that he went by John Watson or that he worked with Sherlock Holmes, he had resolutely refused to answer any questions on the subject. He had stayed focused on Harry and Robinson's death, stating he had full confidence that the police would get to the bottom of any questions.

Not that the reporters didn't try to get more information out of him. It was a new experience for him, being shouted at by the press, but he'd been shouted at and pressed for information by many smarter, more intimidating people (even if not all at the same time) and stayed calm. "I'm here to talk about my sister," he said, voice firm and posture straight. "I know all of you are finding me very interesting, God knows why. However, it is the unfortunate death of your colleague Mr Robinson and the fact that my sister was lunching with him at the time which I am here to discuss."

"Was your sister selling her story to him, as well?" one of the reporters asked. "After the so-called exclusive she gave the _Daily Mail_?"

"Selling is too strong a word," John said, stifling a sigh. "While I'm sure our recent publicity explains why Mr Robinson invited her to lunch, other than the meal itself, there was no money involved. Come to think of it, he never had a chance to pay for the meal, either. I should probably check with the restaurant to settle up the bill. I honestly don't know the protocol, there."

There was a round of chuckles. "Is it true your sister knew the killer, Lord Brandon?"

"The Blackwells and the Brandons have known each other for years. I wouldn't say my sister and Ian are close friends, but yes, they are at least nodding acquaintances."

"Isn't that suspicious? That she was having lunch with the victim and knew the killer?"

John kept his voice level. "The lunch took place in a well-known restaurant, one I understand Mr Robinson frequented often. He could have been lunching with anyone. It's just unfortunate it was my sister."

"But then why was Sherlock Holmes called in?"

They had to bring it around to Sherlock, didn't they, he thought. "He was not," John said aloud. "I was the one called. My sister asked for me."

"But, it was a crime scene…"

"The fact that it was a crime scene was coincidental to his being there," John said. "I was out with Sherlock when I received the call, so he came along. It had nothing to do with the investigation."

"Do you know Ian Blackwell?"

"I knew him slightly when I was a child, but haven't seen him in about twenty-five years."

"Is that before or after you left home?"

John shook his head. "I told you, this isn't about me. I'm here to make a statement about the unfortunate Mr Robinson and how my sister happened to witness his murder the other day. I'm not here to speculate or to speak of my own past—frankly, that seems inappropriate, considering a man was killed. So, to recap, my sister was having lunch with Mr Robinson at one of his regular restaurants. Yes, she had a nodding acquaintance with the alleged killer, Ian Blackwell, but considering the circles about which Mr Robinson wrote, I would imagine many of the people in the restaurant did. After the attack, my sister asked for me because I'm her brother and she was distraught. So, no, Sherlock Holmes was not called in to investigate. He came along because he was being a good friend."

He looked over the gathered press, weary of the whole charade and anxious to sum up. "If that's everything? It is? Thank you for your time."

He gave a polite nod before turning on his heel and walking back inside, meeting Sherlock's amused gaze. "Very commanding, John," he said as John shut the door behind him. "Of course, I could have done better…"

"Right," John said with a snort. "Because you talking to the press is such a good idea."

#

"John!" He winced as Harry's shrill voice greeted them as they walked into the sitting room. "Was that the best you could do? I thought we _wanted_ them to know about your past."

"We wanted them to know enough that they weren't assuming I've been on the run and living in shelters for twenty years," John said as calmly as he could, giving Clara a smile. "We never wanted to encourage gossip."

"They don't need encouragement," put in Sherlock.

"Exactly. They're going to gossip no matter what. We just wanted them gossiping as accurately as possible. What we _didn't_ want was to give them something as juicy as a tabloid murder."

"Oh, don't tell me you're blaming me for that!" Harry protested. "I told you I didn't expect Ian to kill Mr Robinson. You know I would never have sat by and let him if I'd known."

"I don't believe you knew what Ian had planned," said John agreeably as he took her elbow and led her to a chair. "But you still told him Robinson would be there."

"Wait … what?" Harry looked hurt, but John recognized the I'm-Lying-To-You quaver in her voice.

"You arranged the meeting between Mr Blackwell and Mr Robinson," Sherlock told her. "Though I believe you were unaware of your friend's real intentions."

She was shaking her head. "No, I … why would I do that?"

"Because you like the attention," John said. "Besides, you already admitted it yesterday, remember? To us? Of course you were a bit drunk by then, so you might not remember. But it does underscore the point, Harry. There are reasons to stay away from reporters—especially tabloid reporters."

"Oh, please. You're just upset because I'm the centre of attention for a change." She started to get up but John crossed his arms and shook his head until she subsided back into the cushions.

"I know our father let you get away with a lot, Harry, but even he wouldn't have let you get away with murder," John said. "Or if he did, I don't want to know about it. What I _do_ want to do, is lay down some ground rules."

"Ground rules!" She looked disgusted. "As if I were sixteen years old again?"

"I wish. Then Mum would still be here to ground you." He ignored the indignant noise she made. "The point is that for better or worse, I'm head of the family now—yes, I know, God help us all. You keep saying. I know you've had a hard time of it the last twenty years. I know that our father was a terrible human being, and I'm sorry you were left to put up with him—but don't think I don't know how often he's dug you out of trouble, either, for the sake of the family name."

"Now, John, you're exaggerating…"

"Am I? Because there's a very interesting file in his desk, Harry, with all kinds of intriguing details about just what you've been up to." John held up his hand to forestall her protest, ignoring Sherlock's clear enjoyment. "But I don't care about that. I don't believe you planned on getting Robinson killed, either. I even choose to believe that you thought you were helping a friend after the hatchet job Robinson did last month. But, Harry … this has to stop. You've got to start thinking."

"I was! You said you needed help with your publicity…"

"No, I said I needed your knowledge of current society. I never asked to become tabloid fodder. You just decided you wanted your name in the papers as much as possible and ignored all the rest." John glared at his sister. "And don't tell me you didn't. I know you too well, Harry. It might have gotten out of your control, but you knew what you were getting into—not counting Robinson's death."

His point was starting to sink in. "John, you know this has all been hard on me. Father may not have been ideal, but he was still the closest family I've had since you left. It's been difficult dealing with his loss"

"Dealing? How, exactly? By throwing a very visible temper tantrum in the tabloid press?"

"I didn't!"

"What do you call it, Harry? Even though I specifically told you not to, you talked to just about every reporter who would give you the time of day, whinging about how mistreated you were after I'd abandoned you."

"I never said that," she protested. "I put all the blame on Father's shoulders."

"Yes," John said. "But you still made it sound like something out of Dickens—and that _you_ were the injured party."

"You said it yourself, brother. I was the one left to deal with Father. You were free of him. Don't I deserve a little recompense for that?"

"Like what? Having all your problems taken care for you? You already live a life of leisure, Harry. No responsibility, no job, nothing to worry about … but maybe that's the problem. Maybe it's better for you to take responsibility for your own actions for a change." He looked at her, softening a bit. "I'm not saying I'm not going to help you out at all, anymore. But there's a difference between trouble finding you and your going out looking for it. You're a grown woman, Harry. You need to start acting like it before you chase Clara away again. As you like to keep reminding me, I'm your little brother. What kind of example are you setting when you act more like a child than I do?"

She was speechless for a long moment, and then burst out, "It's not fair!

Sherlock gave a smirk and said, "It makes a better impression if you stamp your foot as well. If you're trying to look like a spoiled little girl, that is."

Harry rounded on him. "You think this is funny? I don't think you can talk, Mr Holmes. I've read John's blog. You're not exactly a paragon of maturity, either."

"Nor did I ever claim to be," Sherlock said. "And, I confess, my big brother has butted into my business far more often than I like, but I like to think I've given him less cause."

"Other than a drugs addiction, you mean?" Harry asked harshly. "Or isn't that your fault?"

Sherlock was the picture of calm as he met her eyes and said, "Of course it was. I played with fire in a bottle and thought I could control it, but I couldn't. That's what addiction is. I would think you'd know that."

"Is that what this is all about?" She was looking back and forth between John and Sherlock now. "Some kind of intervention? Because I know I got drunk yesterday, all right? But I think I had some excuse. I'd just seen a man _murdered_."

John nodded. "I know. I'm sorry it happened, but I can understand that one. But it's not the drinking I'm worried about, Harry. It's just a symptom of the greater disease—your lack of self-respect."

She surged to her feet, holding herself erect, every inch of centuries of high-handed nobility in her bearing. "I beg your pardon?"

John didn't flinch. "And so you should. Don't think I don't know that you drink out of a sense of insecurity. Father was forever telling you that you weren't bright enough or pretty enough. He was wrong, mind you, because you _are_. Why else would someone like Clara have fallen for you in the first place? But none of that makes a difference if you don't believe it yourself—and act on that belief."

Clara stepped forward, speaking for the first time. "Harry, I've told you for years that you are special and that your father treated you horribly, but you never believed me. But—you're better than this."

"You had better believe I am," Harry said, indignant along every inch. "I don't need to listen to this."

"Yes, you do." John's voice was firm. "You don't get away with this one scot-free, Harry. You may not have planned on Robinson's death, but you helped lead him to it because you wanted attention. Well, you're getting it now. And I'm telling you, I agree with Clara. You're better than this—and you're either going to start acting that way, or I'll take steps."

"Take steps?" her voice was straining the upper limits of pitch now. "Just what exactly do you mean by that?"

"I mean that, for better or worse, I'm head of this family now, and I'm going to act like it. I want you to be happy, Harry, but you have to admit you've made a mess of things, yeah? Selling your story to the tabloids? How would Mum have felt about that? Or Grandfather? I know you've been alone for a long time, I know I haven't been there, but now you've got me, you've got Clara … and it's time you grew up."

"Grew up?"

John nodded. "Yes. It's something that comes to all of us in time, Harry. It's about time, don't you think? Now," he continued on, not giving her a chance to say anything, "That said, I do know how horrible this was for you, so I think you and Clara deserve a holiday. Go someplace warm and sunny and relax. Forget all about the family troubles and just enjoy being together. No Press. No scandal. No murder … and no drinking. Got it?"

"But…"

"No buts, Harry. You're going. You're going to get away so that you can bake all this petty childishness out of your system in the sun and come back with a fresh view on things. Because, I'm serious. I want you to be happy, but it's time you took some responsibility. I'm giving you a break so you can get a handle on things, but … it's going to be different, from now on. We survived our childhoods, Harry. It's time to move on. I just … I want to do it together."

She blinked, tears suddenly welling in her eyes. "You mean that?"

"Of course I do. You're my sister, even if you are an idiot," John told her as he gave her a hug. "Go get your life together and then come back because I really am going to need your help, you know. For real, this time."

Some sniffles and hugs later, Harry and Clara had left and Sherlock looked at John. "Do you think it will make a difference?"

"I don't know," John said with a shrug. "I hope so. Because she's right about one thing—she was left behind with Father, and even though she was older than me and was no longer living with him … well, he bordered on abusive, and Harry was never the strongest person. I figure … I _hope_ that now he's gone, she can start figuring out how to be happy. Or something."

Sherlock sniffed. "Hardly what she deserves. After all, a man is dead. I thought you cared about that sort of thing."

"I do, even if he wasn't a very nice man," John said, turning to his flatmate. "But at least this way she's out of my hair for a while. Which means we can focus on more important things. Like, I never asked … Do you think you'd like an Earl for a flatmate?"

Sherlock looked down at him, eyes suddenly warm. "I think that I would, yes. Provided he knows how to shoot a gun when necessary. Some skills at first aid would be handy, as well."

John smiled. "Assuming he can work it in around his paperwork, I think I know just the Earl."

THE END


End file.
